Lessons From My Dad
It’s not until tragedy strikes that we look back on the memories we’ve created with those we’ve loved.
My father was a man of few words and even fewer needs. His morning routine involved five things: the newspaper, hairspray and a comb, a prayer, and Dunkin’ Donuts (not necessarily in that order). He spent the majority of his life working at his convenience store, where I’d come in and out on occasion to grab a soda or a magazine. He’d make up for spending so much time at work by bringing home odd little foods for us to try, usually some holiday-themed or foreign candy (and once, two live lobsters…). And if I even casually mentioned I liked something, he would then go and buy a shipping container’s-worth of it from Costco.
My father blindly trusted all his children, and believed in our goodness and our spirit as we were growing up. Though he did not have an active role in our upbringing, he taught us resilience, perseverance, and dedication. As the economy dwindled and his hours at his store doubled, it became a dreaded chore to relieve him for a few hours so he could go home and eat. Some days he worked from opening to closing time, only to come home and fall asleep on an empty stomach.
These days, when I find myself mired in piles of work and unending to-do lists, I think about the lessons my father taught me and how grateful I am to have kept him in my life. One story in particular comes to mind, from when I was nine years old: it was one of those rare occurrences my dad was home, tending to his temple, while his Indian sitcoms played in the background. I insisted he help me study for a social studies quiz, so he told me to study hard and then he would quiz me. I confidently returned later, but almost instantly stumbled when asked to recite the definition of the third word of the quiz. He looked at me sternly and said: “Work hard for yourself, not for anyone else.” Memories of my father, and the lessons he passed down, have since carried me through very hard times.
Four years ago, during one of the worst winter storms in Massachusetts, my father got caught in a serious car accident. Upon arrival at the hospital, the doctors told me he had a “one percent” chance of making it, and even if he did he’d most likely be mentally and physically handicapped for his entire life. As I sat by the hospital window at Tufts Medical that night, all I could think about was where the time had gone. If this was the end of one of the longest relationships of my life, where then do I go, and what have I learned?
As a young student fascinated with the New York lifestyle, my life and family back in Boston seemed distant and unrecognizable. My father with his unruly mustache, thick Indian accent, and love for Ayurvedic medicine became an embarrassing afterthought. What I had failed to recognize at the time is that the impact of my past and the lessons passed down from my father were an integral part of who I was, and how I was already approaching life in the city.
At twenty years old, for instance, I attended a rather affluent university where many students came from families more financially stable than mine. While handling a full courseload, I worked nearly full-time tutoring children around Manhattan, often missing out on being with friends to instead sit with my students. When the school I loved warned me multiple times to leave because I was not “financially fit”, through all my meetings with the Dean, and despite that semester having nearly failed all my classes, I fought back not for anyone else, but for myself, in my father’s image.
It’s been nearly four years since my father’s accident, and while he does have some lingering physical problems, he is mentally and emotionally sound. When he’d finally woke up from three days in a coma, the doctors said it was a miracle they’d never seen before. I vividly remember returning to his room after those seventy agonizing hours to the sight of my father fully awake, singing his favorite Bollywood tune.
When you are young, you never realize how much power it takes to be so resilient. And while most immigrant parents complain about how easy we have it, and how they had to struggle for our happiness, in the end it’s the truth. Never forget where you came from and never forget the small yet powerful lessons passed down to us by our parents. Here was my father, who’d taught me everything but especially the value of hard work, proving the most prestigious doctors in Boston wrong to the melody of his favorite Bollywood tune. Today I work hard in the hopes that I will create immense social good in the future. But no matter how many times I feel like giving up, remembering that image of my dad singing in his hospital bed always gives me the strength to keep going.
Lying on what everyone anticipated would be his deathbed, I don’t believe my father was working hard for himself — he was fighting for us. Thanks for teaching me to never give up, Papa.