Of daddy and my nose!

I must have been eight when I was made to realize that my nose is not my most flattering feature. A relative probably joked about it being too broad one time, and that stuck with me for a long time. So, the weeks, months, and years that followed, were filled with me checking out my nose in every reflective surface I encountered, literally every.

I became obsessed with noses. Funny thing to be obsessed about as an eight-year-old no? Noses? In fact, it is a funny thing to be obsessed about at any age. I used to check out everyone’s nose, compare it with mine, and wonder how their nose would look on my face. I remember using hairpins, cloth pins, and every other pin to pinch my nose together, hoping that it might become more chiseled somehow. Sadly, all the pinching did not work, but what did happen was that I developed scars on my nose because of the continued pressure.

All I wanted, more than anything else in life back then, was a chiseled nose. It was my single, unwavering goal. However, all the pins, prayers, and holding my breath ever so often did not help. My broad nose started making me resent my dad a tiny bit. After all, it was his broad nose that I inherited. I used to blame him for passing on his non-flattering nose genes to me.

I grew up over the years in most other aspects but my obsession with my nose or its lack of sharpness thereof did not wane down. So, I approached this problem the same way I approach most problems in my life – I went to my sister to resolve it. She acknowledged it and then both of us with our combined childhood wisdom came up with a plan. The solution was clear – I needed to get a nose job. The plan to reach there was to work hard in life and become rich because apparently, good nose jobs are expensive. I was satisfied with the solution she offered. It was not ideal, but I was happy that one fine day I can look pretty with a chiseled nose.

Over the years, however, I grew up to feel that my nose was probably not all that bad. I passed my ugly duckling phase to grow up into a good-looking young girl and surprisingly nobody seemed to notice my nose or its lack of sharpness. I was, however, always conscious of wearing any make-up that would draw any attention to my nose. I learned to accept it but not love it yet. I was alright with it lying on my face quietly, not asking for attention. But the thought of it asking for more and claiming its rightful place on my face was almost blasphemous. How dare it! It was just allowed to exist – quietly, unceremoniously, and almost grateful of my acceptance, indebted even.

Over the past few years though, ever since dadda passed away, I started growing a strange fondness towards my nose. I now find in it my special connection and bond with dadda. I feel like a part of him stayed back with me through my nose. On days when I have time to stare at the mirror a little longer and admire myself, I get reminded of him and smile. So, my nose is now a strange yet adorable reminder of my bond with dad. And funnily enough, from accepting it, I have now grown to like it. I no longer expect it to lie unceremoniously on my face. I want to get a nose piercing someday because I want to make up for all the love that my nose did not get all these years. I want to love it, and dare I say, even celebrate it.

On your birthday today dadda, I am thankful for all that you passed on to me – your smile, some bits of your intellect, your fierce independence, your vulnerability, your bad sense of humour, your idiosyncrasies and most importantly your nose…I am thankful for your nose dadda. It taught me so much about the cruel beauty standards we crush little kids and their spirit with. And it taught me so much about embracing our bodies and our beauty. You are gorgeous dadda and so is your nose, and mine. Also, ‘Fuck beauty standards! I am not getting a nose job.’

The curious case of Dadda

It's been way too long…six years, I believe. I was looking at your picture and reminiscing about how you were so peculiarly adorable. You were anything but a regular father. I remember talking to my friends about their fathers and I always wondered how you were nothing of those sorts. I wondered sometimes if you were even cut out for marriage or for having kids because sometimes you did not seem to fit in…your world seemed more fit for solitude. I am not sure if you were actively my mentor or my guide, but I do know that you taught me a lot about love, life and embracing my individuality.

I think I would miss our tea-time conversations the most – I wish there were more of them and I wish I had the opportunity to know you more. Regardless, I was looking at your picture and felt the need to write about your colorful personality, your ideologies, and quirks.

In a world where nothing but selflessness is expected out of parents and the most sacrificing parents are placed on the highest pedestal, your focus on self-care came as a welcome change. You taught me how it is not selfish to have your own opinions, choices, and idea of life and to not change it for anyone. You taught me that it is okay to care for yourself first because one cannot pour from an empty cup.

You taught me that you must always keep the child alive in you. You taught me that you're never too old for jujubes, gifts or stealing toothpicks from restaurants. I remember you getting mad at us for not getting gifts for you on your birthday. You taught me that we must say ‘I love you' to each other and say it often. "I love you the most, Charul. I will live with you after you get married. You must clearly lay this out as a precondition with your boyfriend". Later, you would add, "Also, don't get a boyfriend at this age. All men of this age care about is sex."

You taught me that it is okay to embrace your individuality and not blend in for the comfort of others. I remember how you would much rather sit with the women and discuss food than get into the men's room and watch cricket matches because you did not feel like it(much to mother's embarrassment, though). I admired how you valued people for who they were and how beautiful their souls were, rather than attaching importance to their social status. I remember how you would become best friends with some taxi drivers and spend hours talking to them and conveniently ignore certain VIPs because you just did not like them. I am dazzled by how you loved without bias, loved often and loved intensely. You always stood up for the people you loved, even when you were at your lowest. “You need to be there in people’s grief, Charul. In their happiness, they can still do without you. In grief, they need more support.” I still remember how your students doted on you and how everyone loved you too much. I covet the candor with which you could just be who you were, love the people you want and do the things you love without caring about the world judging you for it.

You taught me that it's okay to be brutally honest (I still believe in being kindly honest, though!). I remember asking you how I looked on my farewell, to which you replied (much to my displeasure), "You look ugly, Charul. You have a terrible dressing sense." I did not feel like talking to you then, but I do laugh about it now. I remember asking you what your hobby was, to which you looked me in the eye and said, "A poor man does not have a hobby. Hobby is a privilege." You taught me the importance of money, albeit in a harsh manner, "The day I stop giving you money, you will stop calling me your father." I loved how you did not believe in pleasantries and small talk, how you spoke what you felt and felt what you spoke. It was almost funny how you reacted at demises and said ‘Everyone dies', ‘It was due time' rather than the usual euphemisms.

I admire your zeal to be the best at whatever you chose to do. You didn’t believe in second places and you were unapologetically blunt about it, “There are no second places, Charul. A miss is as good as a mile. You just lose the first place.”

You taught me that men can cry, feel pain and be hopelessly vulnerable. You showed that true strength lies in embracing our weaknesses. You taught me that it was okay to ask for love, affection and even gifts. It was funny and adorable how you would cry even at Ekta Kapoor serials. I loved how you could laugh at yourself and not take yourself too seriously. "Why did you choose to become a teacher, dad?". I remember you laughing and saying, "It was a mistake. Never become a teacher, Charul."

Most importantly, you taught me to believe in destiny, stars, magic, and love. You taught me to never give up on life and to make the most out of it every single day. You traveled to your favorite destinations till your last day even though your health was critical. You traveled and lived life with the vigor and excitement of a 12-year-old. You lived the phrase, "It's not the years in your life that count; it's the life in your years." There was so much life in every moment that you lived, daddy!

You were beautiful, charismatic, unique, and stood out as a shining star in my life and the lives of so many. You will always be missed Dadda and your idiosyncrasies cherished in fond remembrance.

Those Missed Conversations

‘Aarti, dinner is ready. We are all waiting at the table’, Anita called out for the fourth time. ‘Yes mom, I am almost there’, Aarti shouted back. Ten minutes for that episode of Game of Thrones to end. Aarti could not possibly leave it at the climax; Joffrey was dying. It was the most satisfying moment that television has ever given her. How could she leave the show for anything in this world; food was way below in her priority list anyway. The show ended and with happy tears, she left for the dining room. Much like every day, everyone was done with their food by the time she arrived.

‘How’re you feeling now, Daddy’, she asked throwing a cursory glance at him and started nibbling away on her food. ‘I am fine, dear’, Ashok replied, just the way he replied everyday no matter how excrutiating the pain was. He knew that the questions were a formal exchange of words that her daughter found time to utter in the midst of her board examinations, friends and Facebook. He knew that his health was far behind in her list of priorities. He did not blame her, it was a hectic schedule she had; school, then coaching classes, then self-study. Where was the time? His sickness was nothing new to them after all. Over the years of prolonged illness, the family had gotten used to it. However, they were not completely immune to the grief. Tears were still shed every time they held the medical report with trembling hands in which at least one vital health parameter was shot way above the normal range. However, somehow the grief had become an ordinary affair for them, especially for Aarti. She could not recall the last time he was healthy. She grew up seeing her dad take some ten different coloured pills during lunch every day. From the age when they seemed amusing to her to the age when she could understand the graveness of the situation; somewhere in between she learnt how to feel pain most deeply and to let it go of as easily.

‘Aarti, Aarti’, Ashok shouted on one of the usual days. She was in the middle of her novel. She hated it when somebody interrupted her when she was reading. ‘Why can he not call mom or the helper for that matter? Why me? I’m sure it’s some trivial work which anyone could have done’, she thought to her herself as she stormed out of her room in utter frustration.

‘What happened dad, why did you call?’ she asked trying to moderate her voice so that it doesn’t come out as rude. ‘Honey, I want to watch the Television, can you please get the remote for me? I feel too tired to get up.’ She handed him the remote and was about to leave when he stopped her, ‘Can you not sit here by me. You’re always engrossed in your own world. I feel lonely sitting in the room all by myself. You never have time for me’, he managed to let it out. ‘Yeah…okay, I’ll just get my book and come’, Aarti said. She sat there next to him for the next one hour, lost in her book smiling away at the adventures that the protagonist of the story went through, oblivious to the fact that someone sitting next to her was yearning for a conversation with her. She kept flipping the pages and at 4 PM, she got her dad his medicines and kissed him goodbye as she left for her coaching classes.

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Sometimes in the middle of the night when she would be working on her Mathematics problems or browsing through Facebook and liking all the pictures of this insanely cute guy she had given away her sixteen year old heart to, her dad would come with his coffee mug and sit by her table. She would hate those interruptions at that time, she had to change the tabs and pretend to be going through some educational websites. It was one of those days.

‘Why do you stay up till so late, dad? It’s not good for your health. You should be sleeping by now’, Aarti said in an emotional mix of concern and botheration.

‘I don’t get enough sleep these days. I feel there is no purpose of my life. I am just surviving each day’, Ashok said.

Aarti- ‘Please stop worrying about the purpose of your life. You’ve lived the majority of your life giving back to the society, now is the time to sit back and enjoy. You have played your role brilliantly till now. The school which you started is well established now. It will provide education to millions of students and positively impact thousands of lives each year.Travel the world, enjoy great food, read books and help me in discovering the purpose of my life maybe; stop being too hard on yourself dad.’

Ashok- ‘Yeah dear…I just feel empty sometimes, like I’m not needed anymore.’

‘Coz no-one told you it’s gonna be this way...’, Aarti ‘s phone started ringing. ‘Anjali calling’, it said.

Aarti- ‘Dad will you excuse me for some time. I’ll just take this call and come.’

Ashok- ‘Yeah, sure honey’

The conversation started with how Sameer has been acting strange since the past few days and was giving disinterested, curt replies to Anjali’s messages. It grew with how there were only three months left for the Board examinations and whether Aarti could solve problem fifteen of circle geometry. Apparently, Aarti could and then she started explaining the details of the tangents and radii to her. They ended on a note that they must finish the syllabus in the coming week and start with their revisions as soon as possible.

The phone call consumed some thirty minutes of her time. She realized that she was having a conversation with her dad and rushed to her room to check if he was still there. To her surprise, he was there perfunctorily scanning the pages of ‘An Argumentative Indian’.

Aarti- ‘Hey dad, how are you feeling now?’

Ashok- ‘I feel okay. I think you should sleep. It’s 2:30. I think I will go and make myself a cup of tea.’

Aarti- ‘You should sleep too. It is 2:30 for you too, you know.’

Ashok- ‘I will sleep in a while. I feel like staying up for some reading.’

Having said that Ashok left for the kitchen staggering painfully with each step that he took. The operation for the pelvic fracture was clearly not undertaken properly. The tea took a few minutes to boil; the water gradually swelled up and reached a peak only to crash down when the gas was turned off. He saw the essence of his entire life in that; rising up with passion, reaching the maxima and gradually falling down only to crash down completely when Lord would choose to turn off the gas. He could that feel the end was near, waiting for him to wrap up his roles before he could bid a goodbye. It was probably waiting for him to finish some conversations, conversations he yearned to have.

Aarti did sense some unsaid words that her dad probably wanted to say. Something told her that he was not really interested in reading that book, he probably wanted to have a conversation with her. However, too fatigued with the day’s work, she pushed the thought away and chose sleep over walking over to the living room and engaging in a conversation.

She curled up in her quilt and dozed off. Five minutes later, the phone beeped rather loudly. ‘There? :) ’, the WhatsApp message read. The name on the screen sent a chill down her spine and trashed sleep out of her system altogether. She took no time to respond, ‘Hey, yes. What’s up?’ and the exchange of messages continued till she no longer had the strength to keep her eyes open.

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The pre-board results were out. She topped the class again. Ashok could not attend the parent teacher meeting as usual because his health did not allow him.  Anita exchanged the usual pleasantries with the class teacher who told her how brilliant a student Aarti was and how she must be a proud mother. Anita was certainly a proud mother. She treated Aarti at one of her favourite restaurants that afternoon and told her that she was an amazing daughter.

Content with her results, Aarti returned home. Back home it was rather gloomy, her dad’s medical reports had been consistently poor. Funny thing how circumstances make you capable of feeling ten different emotions in a single day and surprisingly you do justice to those emotions. From being elated to being melancholic, she sometimes wondered how it was possible for one person to feel such divergent emotions all at the same time.

‘Congratulations love, you’re my darling. Like father, like daughter. You always make me proud’, Ashok was beaming with happiness

Aarti- ‘How is your health now, dad?’   

Ashok- ‘It gets better the moment I see you, love. I’ll cook the best butter chicken in the world for my darling today.’

Aarti- ‘No, I think you should rest. The cook will take care of the food. Also, I have dinner plans with my friends tonight. This is our last get-together before Boards. I have to go.’

Ashok- ‘Oh, okay dear.’

Aarti- ‘Bye dad, take care. I’ll go and get ready. I love you.’

Ashok did not say bye. He probably did not want her to go. Those conversations were still lying within him, waiting to unfurl someday. That day was taking too long to come. He was not sure if he had that much time.

Days passed by and Aarti got busier with her preparations. The little time that she got now and then was spent over the phone discussing either Sameer or Aditya and asking/answering, ‘How much done?’ questions. Results came out and she scored outstandingly in all her papers. Life had been rewarding on the academic side.

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Class eleventh happened and seventeen is the kind of age when friends become family. Somehow our world starts revolving around them. Yes, Aarti did blame the age sometimes. ‘Teenage knocks all senses out of you’, she sometimes consoles herself with that statement. With the board pressure out of her shoulders, the starting months of class eleventh were all about partying, get-togethers and dating. Somewhere amidst all the fun, family took a back-seat for her. No, she was not one of those spoiled girls; she just was not a great daughter, not even a good daughter. A good person maybe, but not a good daughter.

She was in the movie hall, lost intently in the movie when her phone started ringing. She put it on silent mode and kept it away. When she got out of the hall, much to her shock the phone read, ’Ma - 45 missed calls.’  A small part of her knew what those missed calls meant, but every other part refused to accept it. With trembling hands, she called back her mother. ‘Aarti, come home; just come home right now. Please come home’, Anita managed to speak amidst the wailing. Aarti did not ask her what happened. She knew what had happened. 

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‘Girls aren’t allowed to go to the funeral pyre’, they said. She turned a deaf ear to them and kept walking ahead. With every tear that fell, she remembered those missed conversations and wondered what they could have been about. Every scene flashed in front of her eyes. Every day when she could have had those conversations which he was taking back with him kept coming back to her. It was pinching her conscience every second and screaming out loud to her about how she failed to be there for him.

She did not cry. ‘Such a strong girl’, they said. She knew that she was not strong. She did not cry because she wanted to keep the pain within her. Crying might have relieved the pain. She wanted to go through it each day and remind herself about how terrible a daughter she was. It was her idea of penance. Some actions are not worth forgetting and forgiving. She did not forgive herself. The regret and pain was for a lifetime and deservedly so.