The love language of my father

As a teenager, what I dreaded most was walking to school with my father in the morning. While I struggled to walk any faster than I already was –eyes droopy and desperately trying to reach the assembly on time – my father droned on about how great it was to rise early for us. While he did so, he also carried my heavy schoolbag on his shoulder. Like every other teenager, I was more than cautious of what I thought was embarrassing, which, I must admit, also included my father. He kept explaining the world and its people to me like the author of an outdated self-help book all the time. We never had a regular conversation. Every interaction that we had somehow became a life lesson. Soon enough, I adjusted my ears to filter out his words, trying to stay out of his sight.

Yet he kept calling me by the silly names he made up for me. He continued to wake me up with a plate of freshly cut fruits he had just bought and went on, as usual, about why I should eat more. While I was away at boarding school, hardly a week would go by without receiving my father’s long letters. My roommates and I laughed as we read them aloud. His advice and unnecessary concern amused us. It took me years to understand his gesture. In fact, I'm not sure if I fully grasp it even now.

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Connecting with the emotionally distant father

My father never raised his voice. He was always instructive, never authoritative. Every piece of advice he gave me was a lesson that life had taught him. It was his way of loving me, preparing me for the inevitable harshness of the world. Growing up, I caught the shifts in his tone, understood the presence of something deep inside him when he told me to work harder. I realised that my father did not want me to turn out like him, someone he only ever perceived to be average. He didn’t want his little girl to bear the burden of unfulfilled potential, as he did.

Though I might have blocked my ears from his obnoxious lectures, I still witnessed the rare kindness of my father. I watched as the son of the local shopkeeper hugged his knees as if he had been a close relative, a random rickshaw puller greeted him like an old friend, and the old, poor woman in the corner smiled at him when he asked about her health. He never lectured me on kindness but presented the best versions of it, pointing to the top of the ladder when he had been sitting there all this time, spreading joy.

So, whom do I blame now that I have adopted the notion that the average is awesome? Inheriting his kind heart will always be my greatest possession. Maybe, soon enough, I will reach the age when life will keep reminding me how right he was. I don't deny that possibility anymore, unlike a teenager swept by Disney’s rendition of what fate means.

My father has retired now. He spends more time at home than I do but no longer walks me anywhere. Though his sessions are less frequent now, the sentiment has not changed; he still talks about how I should cross the roads while he peels me lychees. I smile and nod away, relishing the fact that he still probably thinks that I am 13. We're not the perfect father-daughter pair, but with time, I have learned to sense the care imbued in his words. I hope one day we are able to talk about life like friends do and laugh together without the strain. I haven't mustered the courage yet. But now I willingly sit beside him, listening to his wise words. Though I don't need the advice, I figured I'll always be in need of the care. And I plan to hoard it now as much as I can.