My father is not a superhero
My mother has always accused me of being my father’s supporter. Through their bickering, her continual accusations about something he said or did wrong, even through their fights, that I happened to witness. She always told us that she was alone, in her judgement. Because I was on my ‘father’s side’. Still, my father is not my superhero.
I have seen my father cry. I have seen him get emotional and gotten furious at whoever was making him emotional. At times, even myself. I have seen him lose his father and remain stoic and practical till the end of all the rituals, finally breaking down when asked to say something in his memory. I have seen him see my mother scolding me and walk away, immersed in emotion. I have seen how his eyes looked on the morning of my wedding, and on the day my brother left for college.
I have seen my father being admonished. I have seen him feel awkward when someone put him down. I have seen him face sarcasm from peers who thought they knew better. I have known him to have faced insinuations at work, just because he wasn’t the kind to speak out or argue for no reason. I have known people who ridiculed his humility.
I have seen my father worry. I have seen him worry at times when we had to make choices. I have seen the worry on his face when I asked him if I could go out for a night-out or when I reached home too late. My mother expresses herself very fluently, but I have seen him worry for her too when she lost her mother and didn’t know what to do.
I have seen him not able to solve things. When I joined my bachelor’s course in a field he didn’t know much about, I saw him fumble for words when I asked him things. I heard him say, that for the first time, he feels like he doesn’t know the answer to something. I have seen him learn and try to operate a smartphone on his own; make multiple Facebook accounts and reply to WhatsApp chats with “Regards”.
I have seen him work hard. I have seen him struggle to make things better for his family. I have heard from my grandmother about how he had to cycle across half the city to go to the library, just so he could learn English — A language he didn’t know till his Class 12 — and excel in it today to gain enough recognition. I have seen how he used to stay up late and refer books to write a speech in a language he wasn’t fluent in — Hindi — to be delivered at the Hindi Day Celebrations the next morning.
I have also seen his sense of slapstick humour. The way he enjoys the vernacular cinema and appreciates the random jokes that my brother and I crack around the house. He makes fun of himself in an effort to make my mother laugh. I have seen how he used to make up stories about a spy who lived across the hill outside our bedroom window, to put my brother to sleep each night. I have seen how he helped my mother raise us, how he did things on his own uncomplainingly, when my mother had to travel or go out with friends. I have seen how he has inculcated the fondness for books in my brother and me from an early age — something he thought he didn’t have access to. I saw how he supported our career decisions at every stage.
Superheros don’t have access to these mundanities. They don’t have to struggle much, nor do they need to worry. My father is a normal human being who has been through his share of ups and downs. He has cared, worked hard and loved us. And done his best to give us the best. Always.

