Its been a while, I have been wanting to write about my father. And what could be a perfect day than today: on father's day itself.
When I think of my father, silence comes most of all. Because you see, he does not talk a lot. He has made himself clear, he is not a man of words. He is man of few words. He speaks little. That means, his words are not light. When he speaks, everybody listens. Because they are so rare, his words are valued. They are not light trivial words. They are valuable, like gems.
Since my childhood, I have grown up hearing these rarest words of his. I must have been about 12 years old or so. One morning, I saw him getting ready for his office. Lo, I see that he has hole in his socks. Looks like his other pair of decent socks was in wash or not yet dry. But I was preety sure, he had other pairs of socks, somewhere. Then, I asked him, why are you wearing this socks, you should take it off and wear something better. Then, he said, something very important which I will forever remember in my life. He said, " it does not matter what you wear, but who you are". Then, he further said, " no body is asking me why you are wearing socks with holes.
Those were simple words, but those words had such a great philosophy in them. The philosophy that he not only preached but practiced. My father has always stood up for what he believed in. Even at times, those beliefs had put him in difficulty, severed the family ties, severed the professional relationships. But he has not given up in his ideas. Being a civil servant with rampant corruption around him, he always was honest in his job. At times, I even wondered why is he holding his ideas so strongly. These feelings were acute when he told us that we could not afford few things.
While my other friend's fathers felt it better to give pocket money rather than allowing their daughters to work, my father encouraged me to work harder. Even while I was in school, he had put me up in music classes for at 3 days in a week. Some of my friends used to wonder how I manage to do my homework and other stuffs in between. Yes, three days in a week, I used to walk more than an hour to reach the music class at senior classical singer Nararaj Dhakal: walking all the way from Swoyambhu to Chetrapati. Then, again back at home same way walking for an hour. quickly I would eat and leave school. After being back from school, my father would keep close tab on my tv schedules, homework and also regular music practice. Now, reflecting all this, I see that why in my life, I have never stick to do on thing at one time. I have my legs and hands in too many things at once and somehow I manage to do it. Even while writing this blog, I have 10 other windows opening.
My father has his faults. I won't say he is the best father in the world, he is not. And I am preety sure that I am not the best daughter in the world. My father will tell anyone clearly about that, if any one has doubts. Half of my life, I have tried my best though to fulfill the role of good daughter. And I feel I have been able to do that so far: I studied hard, got a job, got married with nice guy, have two kids, again got a job, got a scholarship for further study in between this and again came back. But still i feel, may be still something is missing. Something is still not satisfying for my father. Yes, yes, I got it. I talk too much. there in lies our biggest difference. He does not talk, I talk a lot. He regales in silence, I feel suffocated. He finds words trivial, I see value on them. But perhaps, one of these days, I will be able to find a middle path between us. Something that we could agree on. Something we could just talk about.
