The Wheels of Time

My first memories of my father are holding on to his index finger and walking to the saloon to have a haircut. I would hold on and trot along while trying to take in the sights at the same time. I would be placed on a plank on the chair handles so that the barber found it easy to access my head and also so that I could see myself in the mirror. All this I did without question.

Often my brother and I would do something completely selfish like finishing off all the chicken rolls that he had got for the three of us while he was driving, and all he would do was laugh it off. I, being older, would feel a bit guilty later on but by that time it would be too late.

People tell me about the time when I was only about a year old and travelling in the train for the very first time. I was too scared of the swaying train and the whistle and the only way to comfort me was to carry me in the crook of his arm. This made me feel safe and my father carried me like this standing for most of eight hours – something that I find totally heroic today. He must have been exhausted by the end of the journey but he did it smilingly and without complaint.

At that age, he was the biggest idol that I had. I am sure all fathers are idols to their children. I hung on to every word that he spoke and perhaps even unconsciously copied his gestures – the way he would smile, walk, shake his legs, his dressing, his hair styling. I would look on wonderingly when he drove – marveling at the way he controlled the car. I learnt to pray after my bath and try to fix things around the house. Often, in my village, I would hang around for hours while my dad supervised a motley crew of assistants fixing the pump or repairing the wall which had been damaged.

He liked to tinker with the car on Sundays and it was a matter of pride for me when I got my hands dirty for the first time cleaning the carburettor that he had removed. He would go to Jadu bazaar on Sundays to get the meat or fish and I learnt the basics of identifying the types that would cook best.

As I grew into my pre-teens, some of the tasks that we used to do together came to me independent of him. The first time I went to buy vegetables and meat alone was something I shall never forget. The completion of the task made me feel like an Emperor who had captured new territory. Of course, the task had not been done satisfactorily, for I had missed out a few items, forgotten to collect change at a few places and such like. Being a man of few words, my father patted me on the head, and only later did I realize that some essentials had been left out when he went out and got the things himself.

My father was an extremely hard worker and usually worked six days a week usually being out on work for at least twelve hours. On Sunday it was quite busy – market in the morning, followed by washing and tinkering with the car till noon, and afternoons were spent ironing clothes. In all this I joined him and he also roped in any of my cousins who happened to be around. This made me quite skilled at using the press as this was one of the first tasks that he outsourced to me. He would sit there supervising things, correcting a wrong fold or reminding us to check the temperature before I started on any piece.

As I reached my teens, the world started opening up. There were new friends, new places and even new thoughts. Independence loomed large and each foray into new territory was exciting. Bell-bottoms and long hair all the rage then! This was something dad did not approve of. While I did not have the courage to defy him, the resentment to his remarks was always there. The daily application of hair oil was a practice that I no longer wanted to continue. Dad disapproved of my skipping this practice; I disapproved of his interfering with my choices. While I had to resort to ingenious means to avoid his noticing all this, my success rate was not very high.

As I neared the late teens, newspapers gave me opinions. And these opinions were often different from Dad’s beliefs. So there were arguments – initially subdued ones with the heat gradually rising with the growing years. The love did not diminish, but the distance was growing. Resentment was taking over from unconditional acceptance on both sides.

He was outdated, I was a rebel.

He was dour, I lacked elegance.

He was senile I was immature.

The list went on.

Whereas I had copied his mannerisms when I was a boy, I now wanted to be as different as possible. We spoke a lot less. When we did, it was mostly when he started the conversation. I would often reply in monosyllables. In spite of this, the end result would be an argument where being younger, I would receive admonishments but in my head, I would say the things that I dared not to his face.

I would find his interference extremely irritating and irrational. I often wished that he would keep his opinions and disapprovals to himself; they were irrelevant in that day and age. At the end, all conversation would cease and the atmosphere would be uneasy for a couple of days. Then we would return to the coexistence of compromise till the next repeat session of the conversation and argument.

But the love never went away. My father had become financially vulnerable owing to a dramatic loss suffered in his business because of a freak natural event. While he did his best not to expose me to this reality, instinctively I knew that things were not too well for him.

I was going away to college; that would put additional pressure on him. He only encouraged me to do well. I would often go and sit with him. We would sit together saying nothing. He seemed quieter and I did not feel like wasting the few days that we had together before going away in argument. He understood that I was trying to empathize with him and would pat my hand reassuringly.

I mostly stayed away for the next five years. During holidays, when I returned home I found Dad quieter than before but having the same zeal for work. He was busy again having found employment again.

Though there was not much money to go around, he was happy because our bare needs were secured and he was busy. I understood that he was trying his best and did what I could to reduce his financial burden on my account – though my efforts did not amount to much.

Usually my monthly expenses would arrive by Money Order. However, a couple of times my father would make the three hour trip and deliver it personally. While he said that he did it because he had to travel half the way for work anyway, I understood that his sole motive was to see me as he missed me. None of us would admit that it was good to see each other. Often, my mother would come to know about his visit only after he returned.

College was over and I returned home to a job. The financial worries reduced somewhat. But we were back to the same resentments, though less often. There were many things about me that he disliked. And it was the same with me.

But we were old enough to realize the futility of harping on it. Though infrequent, the sparks did fly once in a while. But he was happy that I had the same tendency to work as hard as he had done. I admit my hard work was not of the scale that my Dad had reached. Nevertheless, it was one thing that he liked about me. And he trusted me like no other, in spite of our disagreements.

My marriage did not change things much, though it made him more restrained. The birth of my daughter, though, changed things dramatically. He now had a new source of joy. He would bring little things for her when he returned from office. He would take her to the market and would playfully deny her wishes before giving in to them.

My daughter became the centre of attention for all of us. Her antics would sometimes irritate me when I was in the midst of something important, but she played her cards well. She would run to him knowing that I was powerless to scold her there. She was a little warrior. She would match my temper and stood her ground defiantly as she grew older.

The birth of my son was another event which caused a significant change in our lives. The little fellow had five people doting over him. Even my daughter became a little mother to him. The brother was very different from his sister.

While she was quick of temper, he was a peace loving little thing. Never got into fights, would never throw tantrums, and would accept admonishments with a sad face which made it impossible to remain angry with him for long.

While she was inclined to working hard towards what she wanted, the little guy was naturally sharp of mind. He would grasp things quickly, but the flip side was that he lost interest in things quickly too.

By now my parents seemed visibly aged. Though my Dad was working as tirelessly as ever, his attitude was more pacifist now. He did not get into arguments as quickly as he did earlier. He enjoyed spending time with the children and most of the times he would be defending them when I was angry because of some mischief.

Both my children would accompany me to the market, would help me clean the car, and would be my assistants when something would need fixing.

It was my childhood playing all over again; the roles had changed.

My daughter would accompany me to the garage every morning with the understanding that I buy her a toffee on the return journey. I was the world to them as they were to me. My son would not insist but suggest (as was his nature) that an ice cream would be welcome. And he would get it. The little fellow would run around behind his sister when she played with her friends.

Often when there were disagreements, grandfather and granddaughter would gang up against me with my pacifist son trying to broker peace.

Once, when my wife took the children for a visit to my brother’s place in Bokaro during their school vacations, I could not accompany them due to a busy schedule. My wife would put them to work every morning for a couple of hours doing their homework or something of the sort. One day, she instructed my son to write a few lines on the topic “My Holidays”. The composition went as follows:

“I have come to Bokaro for my holidays.

My father could not come.

I wonder what he is doing……”

The rest of the essay was about his father. The topic was quite forgotten. We had a good laugh when we saw it later! But I could see the same sort of devotion to me that I had as a child towards my father.

My father was so emotionally attached to our village that he would hop over whenever he got the slightest chance. His heart belonged there. And it was during one of those visits at the end of the last millennium that he was struck down by a cerebral stroke on Christmas Day.

Unfortunately, the medical facilities in our villages are not equipped to handle such emergencies on priority so it was a few hours before he got any medical care. This delay meant that he never recovered fully. He remained partially paralyzed for the rest of the next fourteen long years that he lived.

During the early days of his recovery, he was fired up with the zeal to get himself fit and go back to work. We knew that it was impossible, but seeing his enthusiastic efforts, did not have the heart to tell him otherwise.

Meanwhile my children were also growing up. My son was finding his feet in the world. The days of hanging on to my index finger were fast flying away. He would still discuss things with me but I could sense that with the passing of years, he did not accept my explanations unconditionally. For, his own opinions were taking shape. And they were not always aligned to mine.

My father had become more dependent on my mother and me. He had mellowed and would often try to make me aware of our properties in our village. He hoped that my brother and I would work to sustain and increase it. 

While we gently tried to make it clear to him that it was an impossible dream that he had. It would not be possible for us to leave our jobs for any significant amount of time to devote our serious attention there, he hoped against hope that we would come around to his viewpoint. It became the only source of difference between us. He did not take kindly to our suggestion to dispose of the property before it was too late. But the differences did not lead to arguments as before.

My son was growing and as is natural amongst youngsters, he was acquiring the uniform lifestyle of his generation. Video games, coke, fast food, snazzy shoes, casual clothing, cell phone addiction, social media – all were the norm. Most of these did not meet my approval. One does not visit one’s relatives dressed in khaki shorts, loose shirts, unkempt hair and sneakers with laces undone. This would lead to criticism from me and defiance from him and finally to arguments and frayed tempers. The seventies were being relived again with different players.

With the death of my mother, there was a distinct change in my father. The fight went out of him as did the will to work towards his fitness. He appeared to more like a child than an elder. He wanted things that he disliked before. He wanted pizzas, ice creams, sweets, and an occasional drink. Significantly, he refused to argue. He became like our third child.

We also changed. When he wanted something, he would wait till he was sure I had left for work. Then he would ask my wife – he was sure she would not deny him. Perhaps the memory of my argumentative self remained strong in his memory. But now I did not want to deny him anything. I wanted to make my peace but his transformation into a man-child denied me this opportunity. I had waited too long! If only I had foreseen this! It was only during his last days that I felt he caught on to the change in me. The time of my childhood was back – only the roles had reversed.

My son has now grown into a handsome young man. But the change in his outlook to life is very different from mine. And it makes me uncomfortable and often frustrated. Perhaps, my suggestions appear stupid to him. His appearance is a great cause of distress to me. I refuse to take his suggestions about the way I dress. The feeling of antagonism is mutual. Perhaps, antagonism is too strong a word! But while I understand it, it appears impossible to reconcile myself to the fact. The period of my youth has come to revisit me – with my role being that of an old fool and his role being that of a rebel.

We both know that the love is still strong. But the mind refuses to accept the differences.

Perhaps, acceptance is the key. Or is it?

Will either of us be able to accept the other’s point of view?

Reconcile – maybe! Accept – possibly no!

I do not think we take too kindly to change in roles – child to youth to adult to child. The change is too subtle and too gradual to allow acceptance. The role changes but the mind initially surges ahead of the change and then lingers while the change overtakes it. 

I hope someday we shall be mature enough to keep pace with the wheels of time.