By Ayesha Ahmed
The last time I met him was seven years
ago. He kept fumbling with the electronic tasbeeh in his hands and looked very
vigilant of his surroundings. I could not understand why until his wife
approached us and lipped, ‘You need not talk in such quiet hushed tones; I’m
sure you guys have much better things to discuss, than me.’
I wanted to hug him, kiss him, take a
stroll with him, demand for candies, do all those things which we used to
indulge in back when I was a seven-year-old kid, but his indifference left me
shattered.
Stress and perpetual fights between my
parents had led to my father walking out when I was just an eight-year-old
adolescent and the next time I met him was 10 years later, when I was 18. He
said he still had recollections of the day he left us (my mom and me) … how I
had kept waving at him excitedly thinking I would get to see him again as soon
as he would get done with his assignment overseas. He blamed fate and claimed
it had something else in store for us. Therefore, he decided to start a new
family in a new country, because he just couldn’t cope with the existing one
anyway.
I don’t think I can ever bring myself to
comprehend the mindset of a man who finds it perfectly fine to accuse fate for
keeping his only child then deprived of a parent. My only hope is that he did
it because he saw himself failing as a father and might have thought I would be
better off without him.
Never did a day go by when my mother
wouldn’t make me count my father’s despicable traits and tell me about his
maliciousness; how he was never there when I was born, how he unconcernedly
left for his job slipping a five-hundred rupee note in her hands to deal with
the childbirth expenses; how she had to struggle with the in-laws to enrol me
in one of the leading schools of the city of those times, how my maternal
grandparents would spend on me instead of my father, as his hard earned cash
would religiously be transferred to his elder brother’s bank account.
But I always tuned a deaf ear to her
wailings because I liked being my daddy’s girl. I stuck up for him, defended
him and treasured every phone call he made, even if it would be once in a
month. After all, what can you expect from a child who has to bear the brunt of
adult confidences! But tell you what … it had more to do with my age.
There exists a fine line between growing
old and growing up. And I am a staunch believer of the fact that you can’t grow
up until you can acknowledge and deal with your parents’ strengths and flaws.
Today, at 25, I have gone full circle
from idolising my father to being outraged at the way he abandoned us to a
mature acceptance of the entire episode.
There will, however, always be a void
because I don’t think I can ever relate to how it feels to have your father’s
protection and support, to see him telling you how proud he feels of you when
you have graduated and to be exhilarated on you receiving your first pay check.
But oh well, c’est la vie (such is life).
Now I’m frantically looking forward to
my wedding month because he has promised to be there with me on my big day. I
can already foresee that that meeting will be our last one, but I have always
treasured our time together and now that there is so little of it left, I
cannot stop fantasising and conjuring up those moments of togetherness.
Happy Father’s Day, Abbu! I know you
don’t believe in this but I couldn’t care less. I have always loved you and
will do it till my last breath, whether we are physically together or not!
Love, your eldest daughter.
The original article appeared here
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