It’s complicated.

I guess this is no different from most other fathers and sons, specially the elder son. Wonder if Freud had something to say about this?

In the ages that mattered, I mostly fought with him, rebellious, questioning, never agreeing. And, by the time I mellowed, he was in a prison of his own making.

Age dulls the average memories, but sharpens the extreme ones — both good and bad.

The very first memory is of my father and me, stranded due to flash floods on the roof of our flat in Patna, waving at a helicopter, begging the soldiers to throw us some food. It was a hard way to discover that my Dad was not really a super hero. But, then I also remember vividly that he was constantly smiling throughout the nightmare, never a crease on his forehead. Was it only to reassure his family that everything would be all right? I will never know.

And, the last? Me holding his hand tight in an hospital ICU, telling him that everything is going to be all right, all the while knowing that I was speaking to myself rather than to him. Along with the notion of heroism, there went the notion of immortality. The harsh glare of death anesthetized the immediate emotions, much like the headlights of an oncoming car. That anesthetic would not wear off for a long time, because boys are not meant to cry.

There were happy moments too. Like the one where all of us left in our beat up Fiat one morning to go to Jaipur. Only that we never reached that far, because we rammed into a public transport bus, just three kilometers out of home. But those three kilometers were the best ever, laughing, joking, hearing loud music and just being a happy family. Wonder if we could have had more of those?

It was around this time that Dhirubhai introduced stock markets to average Indians.  Rifling through newspapers to collect application forms and then the arduous task of filling them out and depositing them at the local Punjab National Bank, these were the days when we dreamt together of better time, bigger houses and longer holidays. Maybe, someday, starting a small business and be the master of our own destiny?

I got some letters from him, in those days when I went away to Mumbai on my first job. Mostly about work to be done, papers to be signed, relatives to be met and festival rituals to be performed. These letters were strangely impersonal, because he came from a generation where love was overtly never stated, only subtly expressed in between the lines. Even today, I struggle to know if this is the universal language of familiar love?

And, then, there were the shared quirks. Of listening in together to the radio commentary of the Australia versus India match, being played in Sydney. Of visiting various junk shops to buy antique furniture for a fortune. And eagerly waiting for those silly special edition mint coins that would only be delivered by registered post.  Fleeting, and precious in recollection, are these those priceless moments that advertising teaches us to cherish?

It’s only much later that you think about the balance sheet of things done well. And, you feel guilty of those thoughts sneaking in of whether you could have done more to make it work. Be the loving relationship like they show in those BollyCandy movies. Maybe driven him to the bank everyday Saturday morning, instead of pretending to sleep? Done more to show support to his fledgling distribution business? Hugged him more often?

Somewhere in between these first and last memories are the gently graying impressions of him being a gentle, giving, generous liberal who almost singlehandedly uplifted three families from poverty by giving their sons, jobs in the city. There are also those personal impressions, about him teaching me to be a closet socialist in a capitalist world, doing more good deeds than bad, without making too much of a big deal about it. And, yes, there are also the altercations, with him on the big brown leather couch and me sulking in my room, the reasons of which, surprisingly, now escape me.

Did he teach me anything at all? Quite a lot, in fact. Frugality for tomorrow, respect to all labour, piety and honesty, and above all, valuing intellect over the material. But, of course, my immaturity rejected most of these notions as quaint and irrelevant during his time.

I judge him today with the value of hindsight. In the final count, it remains that most of the residual memories, nearly fifteen years after his death, continue to be good memories.

As darn questions go, this is the darnedest; was he a good man or a bad father? For most parts, he was a very good man. But, then, why am I unable to think of him only like that?

Maybe, I was a bad son. Quite likely, actually. And I will continue to remain so, because my father was snatched away from his son in his growing up years.

This is why it’s complicated. And, full of question marks. Somewhat like this story.