In my childhood, I never sat before him. So that day when he sat after me, it felt a bit strange. But there was no option. I had to get my first car – a second-hand Fiat – out of the parking lot and bring it to them. He placed his hand on the roof of the car as if blessing it. My sister opened the door to the front seat, made her sit on the seat next to me and I extended my hand to take her hand. It was a very different experience. He held my hand throughout my childhood. My little fingers held his broad palm tightly. But that day his fingers wanted a stronger grip on me. We were born in two different worlds. He was from pre-independence India, born in 1927, while I belonged to the post-independence generation. Yet that afternoon we both sat next to each other, equally. Driving through the suburbs of Mumbai, both of us were looking at the town-life outside the window and windshield. Sometimes he would turn his head towards me and wait for my eyes to meet his. When our eyes finally met as the traffic slowed down, I suddenly remembered the thrill of my childhood when I used to sit on the rung attached to the front of his bicycle. At that time, seeing the pedestrians, trees and shops leaving behind us was nothing less than magic. Now I could see the same happiness in his eyes. When we reached my house, I turned off the engine. As I moved forward to open her door from inside, she held my hand. Can we sit here and talk for a while?- he asked. I was shocked, because in our house his words used to be the last word. But that day he not only wanted to talk, but also sought my permission for it. Why not?- I replied. After asking how I bought the car without a loan, he said softly, do you need any financial help? When I said no, he looked deeply into my eyes and said in a low voice, I’m sorry I couldn’t buy you anything more than a second-hand bicycle. His eyes filled with tears and tears flowed from my eyes. We sat in the car for fifteen minutes. He told about his ordinary railway job and his firm principle of never taking a loan. He described how proud he felt that he walked the streets with his head held high, because he always lived within his means. During his long career he rarely took any leave, so that at the time of retirement he could encash the leave and reduce the financial burden on me. That day I understood that the relationship between parent and child is not stable; It is constantly changing and often very beautiful. Being a father of a daughter myself, I could understand their journey. I realized that despite our differences and his strange habits, he had tried his best. After turning 40, I started to understand how our parents’ own childhood shapes their personality. Parenting is very difficult; No one understands it completely. Most fathers share their weaknesses and struggles with their children as friends only when they see their children succeeding – while keeping the family values intact. My father and I used to talk about many topics – marriage, health, money, geopolitics and insecurities. The one thing we had in common was dedication. He was always dedicated to his family and his work. He remained like a steady, hard-working, strong and committed rock. And he saw the same in me. The bottom line is that father is the best friend for the son. They become true friends when they feel confident enough to pass on the family legacy to their son.
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N. Raghuraman’s Column: When does father become your good friend?
