An Open Letter To Papa....
Dear papa,
It was a long time ago that I was a baby and you took me in your arms and caressed me, stroked my hair, loved me. Maybe when I am so far away from you, I feel the need to wrap myself in your love and affection – the kind of unconditional love that I know can only come from you.
The smell of your Old Spice has now been replaced by the scent of boyfriend’s deodorant and after-shave. But somehow, the memory never goes away – the way I’d run up to you after you’d come out of the bathroom, wrap myself around you, press my nose to your cheek and inhale the wonderful smell, something I never got tired of doing, probably just outgrew it.
So many things cling to my heart. The way you cooked my school lunch when mum was heavily pregnant and couldn’t move around much, lovingly packing it in my round casserole, the omelette and bread you made so carefully, always remembering to put in extra ketchup because you knew I loved that.
Polishing my shoes in the morning because I was simply too lazy to do it. Also because you spoilt me silly, couldn’t see your precious princess from doing anything as pedestrian as shining a school shoe, even though you did it with precision and care.
The times when you sewed on an errant button that had come unstuck from my school shirt or blazer, intensely concentrating on the task at hand, making sure to use white thread over the white shirt and green thread over my green house shirt. You were such an expert at knitting and sewing. You even taught mum a thing or two (though she never wanted to learn and entrusted you look after such mundane stuff).
On the cold mornings, when you dropped me off at the bus stop for the school bus that would rumble to a halt and pick me up.
Those numerous times when we went out shopping for school bags, you checking them for durability and wear-and-tear to see if it would last a whole year.
All the times you put up with my whining and complaining attitude and rebellions during the teenage years, still loving me unconditionally, without asking me for a drop of anything in return. I miss that so much now, because the world simply does not love me the way you do.
The names for you changed over the years. Pa-pa (when I could barely lisp and pronounce my words right), Papa (when I grew up and wanted to use the simplest word for my ideal and my hero), Pops (this was during my teenage years, when I wanted to sound cool, and wanted my father to sound the same), Daddy Long Legs (during my college years, this was after I read the book of the same name, even saved his name as such in my phonebook), Baba (the sedate Bengali version, now that I have “grown up”).
The names may have changed over the years. But my love, respect, affection and warmth for you have never decreased. When you visit me, laden with goodies and all things delicious, like a generous Santa Claus, you remind me of the several Christmas nights gone by. When I would wake up to find a present hidden under my pillow – a box of chocolates, a book, anything I could eat or read (a Bengali’s primary concerns!).
Also, the innumerable cards you gave me, the letters you wrote me, just like graffiti you pasted on the mirrors in the bathrooms and walls around the house. All the times when I would come home from school to an empty house, when mum and you had to run out for some sudden errand, I’d step into my room and find a tiny note tagged on the silver mirror of the huge dresser. Scribbled on an unlined white paper, a leaf torn from your prescription books that had an Rx on top, the note would ask me to eat the lunch stored in the casserole, bathe, play or read. It would always end with “love and hugs, papa”. Those are the tiny souvenirs and memories that jump out from the recesses of my brain when I step into a dark house, that I have all to myself. When I move from room to room, hoping to feel your comforting presence around me. When I sleep alone at night, without you coming into the room to check on me, to kiss me good night, to tuck me in and push a stray lock of hair away from my forehead, to see if your darling daughter was smiling in her sleep, dreaming sweet dreams, instead of being tormented by something horrible. And when that happened, you would be there to take me in your arms, hug me reassuringly and rock me to sleep, murmuring gently while I slowly found my way to sleep-land.
When you leave now, I stand at the gate and watch the cab take you away from me, far far away. I want to cry so bad, and yet I don’t because I know you wouldn’t want to see me cry. Your daughter is now a woman, Papa, and she wants you to be immensely proud of her, in just the same way that she is proud of you.
Forever in my heart – my hero and my idol.
I love you so much.
Moon.
It was a long time ago that I was a baby and you took me in your arms and caressed me, stroked my hair, loved me. Maybe when I am so far away from you, I feel the need to wrap myself in your love and affection – the kind of unconditional love that I know can only come from you.
The smell of your Old Spice has now been replaced by the scent of boyfriend’s deodorant and after-shave. But somehow, the memory never goes away – the way I’d run up to you after you’d come out of the bathroom, wrap myself around you, press my nose to your cheek and inhale the wonderful smell, something I never got tired of doing, probably just outgrew it.
So many things cling to my heart. The way you cooked my school lunch when mum was heavily pregnant and couldn’t move around much, lovingly packing it in my round casserole, the omelette and bread you made so carefully, always remembering to put in extra ketchup because you knew I loved that.
Polishing my shoes in the morning because I was simply too lazy to do it. Also because you spoilt me silly, couldn’t see your precious princess from doing anything as pedestrian as shining a school shoe, even though you did it with precision and care.
The times when you sewed on an errant button that had come unstuck from my school shirt or blazer, intensely concentrating on the task at hand, making sure to use white thread over the white shirt and green thread over my green house shirt. You were such an expert at knitting and sewing. You even taught mum a thing or two (though she never wanted to learn and entrusted you look after such mundane stuff).
On the cold mornings, when you dropped me off at the bus stop for the school bus that would rumble to a halt and pick me up.
Those numerous times when we went out shopping for school bags, you checking them for durability and wear-and-tear to see if it would last a whole year.
All the times you put up with my whining and complaining attitude and rebellions during the teenage years, still loving me unconditionally, without asking me for a drop of anything in return. I miss that so much now, because the world simply does not love me the way you do.
The names for you changed over the years. Pa-pa (when I could barely lisp and pronounce my words right), Papa (when I grew up and wanted to use the simplest word for my ideal and my hero), Pops (this was during my teenage years, when I wanted to sound cool, and wanted my father to sound the same), Daddy Long Legs (during my college years, this was after I read the book of the same name, even saved his name as such in my phonebook), Baba (the sedate Bengali version, now that I have “grown up”).
The names may have changed over the years. But my love, respect, affection and warmth for you have never decreased. When you visit me, laden with goodies and all things delicious, like a generous Santa Claus, you remind me of the several Christmas nights gone by. When I would wake up to find a present hidden under my pillow – a box of chocolates, a book, anything I could eat or read (a Bengali’s primary concerns!).
Also, the innumerable cards you gave me, the letters you wrote me, just like graffiti you pasted on the mirrors in the bathrooms and walls around the house. All the times when I would come home from school to an empty house, when mum and you had to run out for some sudden errand, I’d step into my room and find a tiny note tagged on the silver mirror of the huge dresser. Scribbled on an unlined white paper, a leaf torn from your prescription books that had an Rx on top, the note would ask me to eat the lunch stored in the casserole, bathe, play or read. It would always end with “love and hugs, papa”. Those are the tiny souvenirs and memories that jump out from the recesses of my brain when I step into a dark house, that I have all to myself. When I move from room to room, hoping to feel your comforting presence around me. When I sleep alone at night, without you coming into the room to check on me, to kiss me good night, to tuck me in and push a stray lock of hair away from my forehead, to see if your darling daughter was smiling in her sleep, dreaming sweet dreams, instead of being tormented by something horrible. And when that happened, you would be there to take me in your arms, hug me reassuringly and rock me to sleep, murmuring gently while I slowly found my way to sleep-land.
When you leave now, I stand at the gate and watch the cab take you away from me, far far away. I want to cry so bad, and yet I don’t because I know you wouldn’t want to see me cry. Your daughter is now a woman, Papa, and she wants you to be immensely proud of her, in just the same way that she is proud of you.
Forever in my heart – my hero and my idol.
I love you so much.
Moon.
:)
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