Dear Hello,
Happy Father’s Day. Today, I wish to share with you a real-life story from my life about my father. It’s slightly long, but trust me, you’ll be able to relate to it. This story goes back almost 20 years when I was merely 9 and was fascinated with Indian mythology. Lord Ganesha, the Indian God, was my favourite.
I was at an art fair with my mother and aunt when I first saw a beautiful Ganesha statue at the counter. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He was the size of my nine-year-old face, rectangular, black in colour with a long tapering trunk. Perfectly sculpted body, flat back. I could even imagine where would be his home. The side of my table, just next to the pen stand. I remembered what Dadi had once said. That it was Ganesha, not Maharishi Ved Vyas, who had written the Mahabharata. How about him finishing my homework now?
I ran up to Ma and tugged at her dupatta. She was with a friend of hers, Nina aunty, our neighbour. The two of them were coming for the fair and I hinged along like a tail.
“Ma, I found a beautiful Ganesha, please get it for me…please.”
Ma ignored my pleas, like always. She mumbled a no later, unwilling to spend money on needless things. Nina aunty, who was quite rich by the way — she had a Maruti Esteem in the 90s, got curious, however.
“What is it?” She asked.
“A beautiful statue of Lord Ganesha.”
“Where?”
I was too excited and I dragged Nina aunty by her dupatta. Ma, helpless in front of a richer neighbour, followed rolling her eyes. I wagged my index finger at the statue, howling with excitement. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
“Wow, it is. How much is this for?” Nina aunty asked the shopkeeper.
“200 rupees.”
“Get it packed!” she ordered. For once, I was excited as I thought it was for me. A gift from the generous rich neighbour. Ma also looked at me reassuringly, but then Nina aunty said, “Didi, aap bhi le lijie ek.” Didi, you too buy one. When my Ma asked the shopkeeper to pack another one, shopkeeper made a sorry face. Apparently, the one that I first spotted, the one that Nina aunty first bought was the only piece available. It was no more ours, unless Nina aunty had an ounce of heart. She didn't.
For the rest of the journey on the rickshaw, my eyes were half-wet, as I kept peering time and again at the brown paper which the Ganesha statue was wrapped in, dangling inside the white polythene hung on aunty’s finger. I wanted to steal it from her. Alas, it wasn’t happening as long as my mother clenched my arms, aware of my anguish.
~
The moment we reached home, I ran inside and just shoved my face against my father’s tummy. The sobs came a few seconds later. Loud wails, as if someone had beaten the shit out of me. I was croaking, “She stole it from me. It was mine.” Papa was alarmed. He had never seen me as miserable before. He asked Ma what had transpired. She related. He asked Ma to go to the neighbouring house and borrow the Ganesha statue just for a little while. The confused Ma did as requested. Meanwhile, Papa picked me up in his arms, wiped my tears and said, “Let me take you on a drive.”
Ten minutes later, we were at a hardware shop in Nala Road in Patna, weighing a kilogram of putty — sticky, light brown clay. He handed me the packet and asked me to hold it tight as he drove his rickety Bajaj scooter. I did, so tight that this time no Nina aunty would be able to free it from my clasp. We reached home faster than usual. My father had never driven so fast before.
The next moment, he was seated on the ground opposite Nina aunty’s Ganesha (which Ma had arranged by then). He picked a lump of clay in his hand & stamped it against the ground. It formed Ganesh's back. He asked for a spoon and a knife. Five etches later, the trunk was formed. His fingers knew addition and subtraction. He took out excess clay from the ears and shoved it to the torso. Before I could imagine, it turned into the bulging tummy of the idol. Next, the spoon scooped out excess clay from the crevices and limbs came to surface all of a sudden, leaving a well-built Ganesha in front of me. I was speechless, as Papa picked the clay littered here and there on the ground and fabricated what was missing in Nina aunty’s purchase. Moosh. The rat, Ganesha’s vehicle.
15 minutes, we were done. I had a replica with me. A better one than the original. My tears were history and I could not stop smiling. I had seen magic first-hand. It was the most heroic act ever performed in front of my eyes, without an ounce of machoness. Speechless, I watched my father paint the clay black with carpentry brushes after it dried up. He looked at me, smiled and asked me to return Nina aunty’s Ganesha before she got bothered. I nodded, unwilling to move, to let go of the trance I was in.
Ten minutes later, we were at a hardware shop in Nala Road in Patna, weighing a kilogram of putty — sticky, light brown clay. He handed me the packet and asked me to hold it tight as he drove his rickety Bajaj scooter. I did, so tight that this time no Nina aunty would be able to free it from my clasp. We reached home faster than usual. My father had never driven so fast before.
The next moment, he was seated on the ground opposite Nina aunty’s Ganesha (which Ma had arranged by then). He picked a lump of clay in his hand & stamped it against the ground. It formed Ganesh's back. He asked for a spoon and a knife. Five etches later, the trunk was formed. His fingers knew addition and subtraction. He took out excess clay from the ears and shoved it to the torso. Before I could imagine, it turned into the bulging tummy of the idol. Next, the spoon scooped out excess clay from the crevices and limbs came to surface all of a sudden, leaving a well-built Ganesha in front of me. I was speechless, as Papa picked the clay littered here and there on the ground and fabricated what was missing in Nina aunty’s purchase. Moosh. The rat, Ganesha’s vehicle.
15 minutes, we were done. I had a replica with me. A better one than the original. My tears were history and I could not stop smiling. I had seen magic first-hand. It was the most heroic act ever performed in front of my eyes, without an ounce of machoness. Speechless, I watched my father paint the clay black with carpentry brushes after it dried up. He looked at me, smiled and asked me to return Nina aunty’s Ganesha before she got bothered. I nodded, unwilling to move, to let go of the trance I was in.
"By the time you return, it'd be dry and ready for your study table," my father broke my spell. "Go fast, hold carefully."
I did as asked. Holding and accepting Nina aunty's rightful purchase, I walked with grace this time. I didn’t crave for it anymore. I did not need it. Not because I now had my own Ganesha, but because I was the Ganesha, created by the very Shiva who was sitting cross-legged in front of me in his banyan, varnishing the painted clay.
~
Often heroism isn’t in what seems outrightly macho but in the simplest acts of creativity & kindness such as the above that my father undertook in the snap of a moment. The self-belief, the surprise and the joy he displayed didn’t require valour or pomp and show, but love for me and sculpting. Today, take out time and remember the moments where your father turned into a superhero for you. Use #SuperheroDadin the caption of your posts on YourQuote. Make sure to try out the beautiful Father’s Day cinemagraphs available in the library.
Before I part, I leave you with a quote on fathers: “When you’re young, you think your dad is Superman. Then you grow up, and you realize he’s just a regular guy who wears a cape "
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