Baap

I remember the summer of 2009 like it was yesterday. I had spent the entire season basking under the hot sun of Konkan, Maharashtra—my native place—at my mama’s (maternal uncle’s) home. He lived in a humble hamlet called Halkul in the town of Kankavli. Visiting him was always the highlight of my summer—not just because of the enormous house he had (we Mumbaikars are always in awe of big homes outside the city), or the fun-filled days spent with my cousins playing all sorts of games, or even the delicious food prepared by my beloved aaji (grandmother). What drew me most was how much my dad—my old man—loved this place.

Of all our relatives in the village, I loved visiting Pramod mama’s house the most. My dad enjoyed being there in a way I never saw elsewhere. Even as a 10-year-old, I could sense how happy and at ease he felt. I didn’t understand family politics back then, but I noticed how naturally he slipped into his element in Kankavli. It made me love the place even more.

Growing up, my dad wasn’t around much to spend time with me. I’m not complaining—I’m 25 now, and I understand what it takes to provide for a family. But as a child, I sometimes wished he was there more.

That summer, something happened that I will never forget. On our way back home in our Chevrolet, near Ratnagiri, a tempo driver took a sudden and reckless turn in front of us. My dad, with quick reflexes, slammed both the brakes and swerved to avoid a collision. The car flipped five times before coming to a halt. Miraculously, we all survived. I was sitting in the front seat, and I owe my life to German engineering and my dad’s instincts.

Once the car stopped, my dad checked on everyone—my mom, aaji, ajoba (grandfather), and me—to ensure we were safe. Then, without a second thought, he reversed the car, blocked the tempo’s path, and pulled the drunk driver out. He grabbed my cricket bat from the trunk and beat the man severely, breaking his nose and legs. He might have done worse if my mom, ajoba, and some passersby hadn’t intervened.

That day, for the first time, I was afraid of my father. His rage was terrifying. But as I grew older, I understood his actions. The driver’s carelessness could have cost him his family. While my dad’s actions were extreme, they weren’t unjustified. Even the 10-year-old me knew that.

In the summer of 2011, after our farmhouse in Alibaug was built, I remember playing cricket with my dad and my cousin Ninad all morning and afternoon. That was the first time my dad taught me how to slog on the leg side. Later, he showed me how to bowl a sharp off-spin—something I’m still known for if you’ve ever played against me.

Traveling was another thing I’m grateful for. My dad’s work required him to travel often, and because of that, we got to visit him in different parts of the world. My first international trip was to Malaysia when I was seven years old. On the flight, I kept pestering him about the currency of China. Eventually, he joked that it was “bucks,” and I believed him. Until the 9th grade, I confidently thought China’s currency was “bucks.” It’s a story that still makes me laugh.

Not many of my friends have had the privilege of meeting my dad, but those who have would agree on what a larger-than-life personality he is. Everything I know about Bombay—the local trains, the jugaads, the energy of Lalbaug cha Raja—I’ve learned from him. He has countless stories about goofing around with his friends after college near JJ School of Arts (his alma mater) and his favorite spots in Ghatkopar, Dadar, and South Bombay.

One memory that stands out is from when I was eight years old. My dad took me, Ninad, my mom, and my uncle to Lalbaug cha Raja. We waited in line for over five hours. I remember crying from exhaustion and the chaos of the crowd, but my dad lifted me onto his shoulders and carried me the rest of the way. When we finally reached the idol, he even bought me my favorite Ganesha relic.

If I’m being honest, my relationship with my dad hasn’t always been great. I used to envy my friends who had what seemed like perfect father-son relationships. But as I’ve grown older and reflected on the past, I’ve realized how much my dad has done for us. He has provided at every point in time, done his best at every moment, and never let us feel the weight of his struggles.

It’s my dream to bring him to the USA soon and show him the life I’ve built here. I want to take him to New York City—a city I know he’d love as someone who grew up in Bombay. I want him to experience the energy of NYC, the way I’ve experienced it, and enjoy the retirement life his son will give him.

There are so many things I want to thank him for, and I know no words will ever be enough.