To the best teacher in my life...

There was an image I remember vividly from my younger years – it was one of this little girl, who at the end of a cooking oil ad, says emphatically and full of belief “My daddy strongest!!!”

I lost mine 12 days ago – we spoke for a long time on the day and while physically weak for the world, to me, he was the strongest right till his last breath.

The loss of a parent, especially one like my father, is something one cannot articulate– it is the loss of an anchor, a person who was formative in your view of life, a safe space and in my case just someone who always had my back. I knew with my father, I had a jail card in life. There was no problem too big or complex or scary that I could not go to him with and he parked judgment and always asked for my perspective first, presented his next and we solved things to the best of our abilities and the world always felt safer with him around.

He was a pilot, someone who has seen and served in wars in the Indian Air Force and in his later years seen the world as a commercial pilot. We heard about his Air Force days with awe and wonder and he would always talk about deep relationships from good times but some important ones were formed in adversity. He ensured whenever and however often as was possible, he took me and my sister with him – to show us the world, be curious about it but more importantly teach us important life skills – approach life with confidence, humility and a zest that was truly a defining quality of his.

On his time off between flights, he would drop us to school, iron our school uniforms with such perfection (he would joke people would know when he was in town thanks to our crisp pleats :)). He taught me the tradition that I followed through my children – he never got presents from every trip. He would say he didn’t want us to look forward to him going away just because it meant we would get gifts at the end of the trip.

He introduced me to the wonderful magical world of books – just knowing when I was ready to transition to the next genre – the idle summers described by Enid Blyton to the dry humor of Jeeves in P.G Wodehouse. In Roots, Kizzy’s enslaved life but how her spirit was free and a warrior spirit that ran through generations. Though Hitch Hiker’s guide to the galaxy realizing that we are miniscule and never to take life too seriously. Did I tell you how he taught me about scouring second hand stores for treasures and joy of a library and the smell of books – how we spoke of the smell of books.

In all of this, we had a tradition that I think was his best gift to me – our conversations together. He taught me how to think – not when, where or what but “how”.

There was no shape or structure to our “chats” – he would always find time alone and it would be one of our sneaky missions behind my mom’s back. Discussing the books we have read recently, eating the roadside Vada Pav, or walking in the rain, devouring an ice cream when I had a cold. There was a thrill in these – it was militant towards my mother, who had the unfair role of with us dealing with day to day life. It was doing something secretive and was deemed wrong but I had his approval and what else mattered. And more importantly it meant we were going to talk about something inane, something exciting or it would be a glimpse into one of his adventures.

Often, we’d talk about whatever was on our respective minds—why women were treated differently, why the world condoned slavery, the economy, his work. Wherever our conversations started, their destinations were, unlike our sneaky missions, neither planned nor foreseen at the start. 

As I grew older, our conversations more often started with my preoccupations—the meaning of life, the difference between science and art, what made a person charismatic and interesting, why I couldn’t be a pilot, why was education important etc.

Tomorrow is 13 days since he passed. The 13th day, as per Hindus, is the day the soul is freed and allowed to reincarnate. Once, I asked my dad whether he believed in life after death. He stopped, looked at me, and said, “Hmmm, good question!” Then he pondered, asking me for what I thought, thought aloud himself, both of arguing both sides, and concluding in the end… well, I can’t remember what we concluded, but whatever it was, he would not have said it was decisive, certain, or true. 

He would have fully admitted that his judgment was not a fact, but the best possible answer he could come up with at the moment. He would have enjoyed my taking the opposite position, and he would have tried sincerely to see my perspective, present his, be amused about my passion and we would have laughed about it.

He taught me through these discussions how to think – never to jump to conclusions, to always think of things from another person’s perspective, to separate hopes and fears from facts and beliefs and never to take “It is so because told you so” to be the answer especially if it was hierarchy or age or power. He taught me to command respect by being fair in discussion and representation, not to demand it because of any misplaced notion of superiority.

If there is a life after death, I know a multitude of people are going to benefit from having him and his amazing self-deprecating humor in their lives. If there isn’t, he knows that through his children, his grandchildren, his students and so many that he influenced, he lives through their thoughts, perspectives and actions.

Either ways, you live on Dad and you always will be My Hero.