Days With My Father
Ashim
Kumar Paul
Darkness had besieged the open wide
field where an around seventeen-year-old boy was sweating his guts to learn
riding bicycle. The whole body of the boy was soaked with extreme sweat. “I
have to learn tonight, no matter, how much time it may consume”, the boy
murmured. His uncle was with him to lend a hand to learn the most ‘important’ skill.
Though the HSC examination was knocking at the door, it seemed that the enticement
for learning riding bicycle had depleted the necessity to pay attention to the
impending examination! The reason behind learning bicycle riding so late was
the fear of his father as his father was scared of the safety of his dear son.
However, finally the boy could manage to learn riding bicycle following his two
day-long endeavour.
The boy was none but me who did learn
bicycle riding escaping the eyes of my father since it was a ‘prestige’ issue
for me. My friends and classmates always pestered me not to learn how to ride a
bicycle. Nothing but shyness would douse me for my ‘incompetency’. When I could
override the ineptitude, a stream of ecstasy drenched my soul. But the
expertise was exposed to question when I went through an accident at the time
of riding bicycle on a busy highway. Although it was not as serious as it could
be, I was much frightened. It was because of my father who never liked my
bicycle riding. However, in the afternoon, my father returned home and softly
said, “You have run into an accident, haven’t you? Did you feel much hurt, or
not?” I muttered, “No, it was not so serious.” I sensed to be rebuked but his
silent exit relieved me much.
This is my father by whom I have never
been reproached for my mistakes. He never imposes his decision upon me. Whatever
I wished to study, a strong support came from him. After completing HSC examination
when I was stuck to my decision to study in the English department by leaving the
allure of becoming doctor or engineer, I feared that my father might go angry
to my decision. But to my utter surprise, my dream would not be blown out!
Following completing my graduation when
I stepped into Dhaka for higher studies, it was my father who was worried the
most about my safety and health. Still whenever I come back to my home, all he
inquires first is “Do you suit the weather of Dhaka?” My positive answer rarely
eases his apprehension.
It is a common experience that if you
stay away from your native friends, you must be willing or tenderly forced to
spend more time with them. There is no exception for me. As a result, often it
becomes late to return home. But my father, since the clock strikes eight o’ clock, again and again, asks my mother if I have
returned yet. Sometimes, he phones me and only asks me in undertone, “Where are
you?” That’s it!
Unlike my mother, my father
is reticent about expressing his profound feeling for me. Only one or two
minutes are the highest call duration of the conversation between us! Never in
front of me, has he expressed his joy about my achievements or triumphs. But to
his friends and acquaintances, he never hesitates to speak about me though my
reluctance doesn’t work here at all!
I dreamt that with the first
salary of my job, I would buy something for my family and my dream successfully
paid off. When I offered my father the gift for him, he quietly took it. That
sight hurt me as I wished to see his unbound delight. The next day when I had a
tête-à-tête with my mother, she informed that my father, wearing the dress
bought for him, went to the nearby shop to chat with his acquaintances and told
them proudly, “This clothe my son has brought for me with the first salary of
his job.” A tear rolled down my face.
In my childhood, I went closer to my
father to request him to tell me the
fairytales when my father used to take a nap after
the lunch. He would never discard my plea. Besides, I can still recall the days
during Durga Puja. I used to visit the temples with my father. But the golden
days have been lost within the cavern of
time. Only the leaves of recollections are
left for me.
One of the key resemblances
between me and my father is that I am as reticent as my father to express my
love for him. Both of us fail to exchange our warm and strong feeling for each
other. Though I always let him know about my recent feat, it is, indeed, my
discomfiture that even in the Father’s Days (observed on
the third Sunday of June, celebrating fatherhood, paternal bonds, and the
influence of fathers in society),
I do not let him hear what my heart always utters: “I love you, my father”. Forgive
me, Baba!
