Yesterday was Father’s Day.
Let me confess: I had no idea such a day existed. I didn’t check LinkedIn till night. Then someone mentioned it, and of course I had to Google it—the third Sunday of every June is Father’s Day.
It passed quietly and unnoticed, like many fathers do.
So this post is for the two most important men in my life: my father, and my son’s father.
Today, my father is almost bedridden with Parkinson’s disease after his fall and fractures.
But when I see him, I also see—
Security and safety, wrapped in a stentorian voice and a love for music.
The familiar face and glasses that stood head and shoulders above the other parents at Shankar’s Art Competition.
The blue Vespa on which Appa would rush me to school every morning at 7:30.
The Ludlums and John le Carrés he would quietly bring home from his office library, much to Amma’s disapproval.
The scooter he bought me when I complained about clinging to the footboard of overcrowded buses.
And then there is Krishna’s father.
Quiet. Unassuming. Content to stay in the background.
Always showing up, no matter what, for his son.
Sick? Doesn’t matter.
Exhausted? Doesn’t matter.
Office deadlines? Don’t matter.
Promotions and better job offers? Don’t matter.
Unsure of how to handle something with Krishna? Doesn’t matter.
Afraid he might get it wrong? Doesn’t matter.
When Krishna is in the middle of a violent meltdown?
“G, move. I’ll hold him.”
He always shows up.
No matter what.
Happy Father’s Day to these two remarkable fathers.
And to Krishna and me—for having them.
