Fathers and daughters share a special bond. In 2021, when an anthology was seeking short fiction for the ‘Grieving and Healing’ anthology, I wrote this, remembering my Achan, whom I miss. Everyday. He pampered me and never raised his voice. My friends, who once teased his crazy love for me, now reach out to me, saying that they are imitating my father; they have daughters whom they pamper and adore.
SOME THINGS NEVER CHANGE.
I see my mother talking to a lady, and I walk across the hall to join the conversation. Children circle the table nearby where a Monopoly board game is in progress. A clamour breaks out, and someone rushes to manage the unruly brats.
While my mother discloses her special recipe, my mind and gaze wander towards the other guests—a motley bunch. Animated conversations whip around me.
A girl in pigtails runs to us. “Mamma, I want water.”
My mother’s recipe captivates her mamma, and the daughter’s plea falls on deaf ears.
I can see a jug of water at arm’s length of the girl, a tween who is capable of picking up the pitcher to drink. But she refuses to quench her thirst and stares at my gesticulating mother. I do not suggest that the girl pick up the water jug. I am wary of youngsters. She may scream, ‘mind your own business’.
I do just that.
The next instant, the girl’s father swoops in like a genie, “Baby, I will get you water.” He finds a glass, tips the jug, and offers it to his daughter. Then twirls his stubby finger on her stray curls and tucks them behind her ears.
Why can’t the girl pour herself a glass of water instead of expecting her parents to do it for her? And the father dashes from across the hall to do her bidding. I chew on my thoughts.
Uncannily, my mom reads my mind, and her lips curl up. Soon, I can see the thing staring at me. My father would have darted to my side to hand me a glass of water and smothered me with his attention, love, and adoration. I would have persisted like that girl in pigtails – Forever Daddy’s Little Princess.
The moisture in my eyes threatens to fall. I miss my Achan. A silent presence in my life, invariably supporting me against all odds.
My mother relentlessly complains that I take after my father. That none of her genetic material has seeped into me.
I am proud to be my father’s daughter.
A plethora of memories unspool – the ritual Achan followed, by waiting at the gate until I returned after work, and how Achan would stay by my bedside if I were unwell, how Achan gulped his resentment when I returned home late after the movie with friends, and the cigarettes Achan smoked when I went through labour. Especially the camaraderie Achan shared with my husband…
I see my husband on his knees listening to our daughter’s babble.
Some things never change.
Fathers and daughters – an incredible bond that never fades. My father lives on in all the fathers of daughters.
Picture Courtesy – Brittani Burns
