Representative image of a father and daughter.
Credit: iStock Photo
"Appa, one of these days my photo is going to appear in the paper!" I declared at the breakfast table with all the fierce conviction only a pre-teen, which I was then, could muster. “As long as it isn’t in the Wanted column!" quipped my father with a mischievous smile on his face.
My father passed away sometime ago. Memories of our shared laughter over many such conversations through the years play in my head like a never-ending movie. He had lived to 92 and bestowed not just a multitude of shared memories but also numerous stories from his life. A gentle man with a wry sense of humour, my father's jokes were delivered in an understated manner and often with a deadpan expression.
News of his demise opened up a wall of memories for not just cousins and friends but even strangers. “I lost my father during Covid and couldn’t even see him as I was here,” said the woman seated next to me on the flight to Chennai. “The grief never goes away.” Many of my father’s stories revolve around his days as an instructor at a bank’s staff college. And I learned just as much from him after our occasional fights as I did from his stories. Our arguments revolved around my perceptions of his silence and reticence in speaking up for his family. The lesson he taught me through his actions was one of accepting people and situations.
My father had been a banker all his life. At work, he probably was not far from the staid image of a banker many of us have. Yet outside of work, he had a wide range of hobbies—photography, astrology, science fiction, and classical music. And he brought his passion, and dare I say quirks, to each one of them. Cars—nay, his car and its care were one such passion. In high school, I remember cringing when I heard one of my classmates remark, “Your dad must really love his car; this is the third time I saw him this week at the local garage!" The mechanics in town were constantly tested for their expertise as they tinkered with his hobby horse. He was also a perfectionist in the art of driving. When we lived in Mumbai, I remember how every car would overtake us on Marine Drive. "Even a bullock cart is moving faster!" I’d fume as he drove slowly. When irate drivers behind him honked incessantly, he would say, "Does the fella think my car has wings?"
Some of the most poignant memories of my own career as a classical musician were of my father humming in the audience when I performed on stage. He would hum at his own pitch and sometimes miss the beat. He turned a deaf ear to my mother's pleas not to keep tala and insisted, "Why should anyone pay attention to what I’m doing?" My father’s name was Baskaran.