To be Seen - To be Heard - To be Understood - To be Accepted

I am my father’s daughter, I know it. Yet, there is a desperate clawing inside my soul to claim more from him. Do I have his greatest quality?

Why did we fight was not important. What’s important is what happened during the fight. My father allowed me to be angry. He allowed me to show dissent. He allowed me to stomp out of the house. He didn’t tell me that a girl could not do that.

The sun was quickly setting. I climbed down the stairs, crossed the tiny courtyard, the main grill was open. I had stepped outside the boundary of the house uninterrupted. This was easier than I thought. I decided to sit on the cement bench. My mother quickly followed me, fussing and fretting over my anger. “Come inside, now! Don’t be angry,” she must have said. I know I refused to listen to her. I continued to sit on the bench. My grandmother gave up her afternoon siesta. The ruckus in the house must have woken her up. She came out and in her typical grandmotherly ways tried to coax me to go inside. When I didn’t acknowledge her, she gave up.

I could see the children playing across the street. I could hear them call out to each other. I watched them with all my attention. Should I take the road to the left or the one to the right? I think that was on my mind. Time was running out. The children had started to go in. It was getting dark now. The street lights would come out soon. My mother watched me from a distance. I suspect, she must have asked Baba to call me inside. He being him, didn’t. The neighbours came in next. The two dadas I was fond of. Then their mother. All their cajoling didn’t make me budge. Instead, I avoided them so I could nurse my anger. I had done a good job until then. If I gave up and walked inside, would that not be a defeat? That would mean, I had accepted to listen to him. I think my mother or my grandmother, or maybe both of them had tried once again. Now it was too late to leave too! After all, I hadn’t left my seat for anywhere.

That’s when we heard footsteps. Baba had decided to surrender. I didn’t turn to look at him, but I heard his voice. “Okay…that’s it. Enough…let’s go inside Mumma.” This was enough. I turned towards him, stretched out my arms. He scooped me up in his and carried me inside. The two hours melted in his embrace.

I was 4. This was our first fight.

This remains as one of my most favourite childhood stories. It’s something of a family legend. We have heard it so many times. I remember vivid parts of it too. That time of the evening. My legs swinging on the cement bench or puliya as we call it. The many people who came to placate a fussy 4-year old. I remember them suppressing their laughter and smiles. Their attempt to take my anger seriously. I remember feeling strong. I remember being seen. Heard. To be understood. And accepted. Not by everyone, just my father. I was all of 4. Baba didn’t have to take me seriously…

Today, it is 4 months since Baba’s passing.

I have realised, that as the days, weeks and months roll by, the best way to honour him would be to keep writing our stories. At least that’s what brought me back to long form writing. I wanted to write this today. And so, I’ve been gathering the ingredients for this essay. Last evening, as I wrote it down in my notebook, I asked myself, “Why is this story important to me?” This morning as I sat down to write on Substack, I called Maa and asked her again, “What did we fight over?” She laughed and said, “I don’t remember that…maybe it had something to do with your eating! You were such a fussy little girl.” Just at that moment, I wanted to go back to my father and ask, “What kind of a man gets angry on a 4-year old hungry daughter? That’s cruel!” Then I imagined him shrugging his shoulder and chuckling back at me in his inimitable style. I am sure he is doing that reading this behind my shoulder.

The next time we fought, I was older. This time, I remember why I was angry. He laughed and poked fun at my need to be heard and to be seen. I was in grade 7th. I had returned from my first school camp. “Now we will hear the same stories for the next one month!” He had joked to my mother in the car. They were on their way to pick me from school. He was right. I started talking just as I got into the car. By the time he pulled out and got onto the main road, I had finished my first story. My parents shared a look and chuckled to each other. “What?” I asked. My parents rarely shared private jokes. At 12, I was razor sharp! I knew there was something that I was missing. What?! The joke was on me?! I leaned back into the seat, crossed my arms and said, “That’s it! I am NOT saying anything else!” My preteen version was just as stubborn as the 4-year old, if not stronger. This time, it took them (I made my mother suffer too) a week of apologising before I agreed to tell them another story. I deliberately made them suffer by listening to my stories for more than a month!

My mother was always worried that I inherited my father’s anger. We show it differently, but we share the same origin. His stubbornness. His jed or zid. His relentless pursuit to ‘fight’ when things go wrong. To stand up for myself and more for others. She worried that I was too much like him. She is right. I inherited a lot of him, and yet, I feel incomplete. Since his passing, I have been searching more of him inside me. I am my father’s daughter, I know it. I have to prove it. There is a desperate clawing inside my soul to claim more from him.

I want to inherit his ability to see, hear, understand and acknowledge another human. My father was the kind of man who allowed others to just ‘be’. He didn’t let bias, other’s perception, or rather the person’s own perception of oneself, limit the way he accepted them. People showed up with their flaws, weaknesses, vulnerabilities and realities before him. He embraced them with his heart and let them be in their true skin. His ego, his wisdom, his experience, his skills, his knowledge, his greatness did not interfere with his relationships. I was never irritable. He didn’t ignore them. He didn’t avoid them. Instead, when someone needed him, he was always there. ‘I see you’, that’s what he meant to say to everyone. He didn’t say it. He didn’t have to. Anyone who knew him could see that.

He was a man of chosen words. While we gathered around him to hear him tell us another anecdote or story, there were circles where he sat listening. He spoke briefly, yet it is those words that made others show up with their honest selves. People shared their lives with him so they could hear what he had to say to them. He appreciated effort. He was generous with praise. And to those who he held closest, he shared his opinion without hesitation. I have seen even the most timid, reticent and under-confident persons show up with their goodness before him. Even the unscrupulous tried to cover up their creases so they could show up in their most positive sides. In all of my growing up years, I had never seen him say a single bad word about anyone. Even for those who we couldn’t tolerate, the traitors, the foes, the crooked. Even when he was cheated or was let down by those closest to him, he didn’t say a word. He allowed them to perform to their worst selves, Baba accepted them with their flaws. He balanced them out with his goodness and higher spirit.

After his passing, the two people who miss Baba and his gift to see - to hear - to understand - to accept them, are A & V. To one, he was a father, a mentor, a guide, his coach, his voice of conscience. To the world, they were father-in-law and son-in-law. To me, they were a reflection of each other. To the other, he was a grandfather, his best friend, his secret keeper, his listener, his score keeper, his voice of confidence. They were separated by 60 years, but when you saw them together, you wouldn’t know it. A & V are two branches of the tree that begin with me. Yet, these are the two branches that were closest to him. To see these relationships grow and bloom has been my life’s greatest joy.

In the past decade and a half, I have seen A and Baba grow so close that at times I have felt the lines blur between the two. Baba really appreciated A’s ability to connect and speak to people like servers, drivers, support staff by their names. “This is such an important quality to have. To call someone by their name, is to acknowledge them,” he would say when he saw A touch people on their shoulder and speak to them. When did A start becoming like my father? Surely, he wasn’t like this when we fell in love? However, even without a mirror between the two, you would see they are the same person. In all the 30+ years that I have known A, I have seen how much being seen, heard, understood and accepted by Baba impacted him. I am immensely grateful to my father for being there with A as much as he was with his own children.

With V, his relationship with his grandfather was a gift to us. The rest of us made room for them to be with each other. By default, Baba became the most available grandparent to V. They spoke everyday, sharing their lives to the minutest details. Starting with the intricate details of his superhero escapades, Baba was the only grandparent who could remember the superhero’s and their back stories. In between all the games that V invented, to being curious about his life in school, his music and football class, Baba was the first to read his grandson’s epic fantasy novel. “What a writer!” He said to me. I reminded him to not be blinded by his grandfatherly love! “Remember to be critical Baba! Don’t praise him just because he is your grandson!” I said. Yet, when he was the first and only one to read V’s first soon-to-be-published story, he said to me, “You will be stunned when you read what he has written!” Baba read V’s story BEFORE it was printed in an anthology, it would always be a special memory to the young writer. Baba was the first to observe the signs of his grandson’s adolescence. Between talking about the physical, mental and emotional changes, Baba knew that his grandson’s heart & mind were beating to a new rhythm. When he fell ill the first time in 2018, I told Baba in the hospital, “I need you to be well. I am not sure how would I handle a teenage boy in Delhi. I need you to be V’s guide through those years.” He had promised me he would be around till V turned 18. He left us 6 months before V turned a teen.

Growing up with Baba, I have lived through the experience of being seen - being heard - being understood and being accepted. We spoke everyday. I shared my life’s happenings with him everyday. Never after grade 7th did he pretend to make fun of my stories or my need to tell him the smallest details. Even if no one had the patience, or heart or mindset to understand me, it didn’t matter to me. I had him. Learning to live without being seen - heard - understood - accepted, will take another lifetime. However, in the past 4 months, as I have been wondering what I have lost, I realised I cannot wallow in my own loss. Looking at the void in A & V’s lives has been heart wrenching. Their loss will always be greater than mine.

Everyone deserves to be seen - to be heard - to be understood - to be accepted.

I have enormous shoes to fill.

How do I fill that gap for them? How can I see - hear - understand - accept them better? How can I give them the space to ‘be’? Can I even dare to try?

And so, I am learning to do that everyday.

Do I have my father’s trait?

Even if I have not inherited it, I hope to grow it. I believe my father sowed some of it in my heart.

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This is a story from my set of prompts in 365 Days 365 Stories.

The prompt is, “Tell us of a time when being seen or being heard made a difference in your life.”

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P.S: I am still trying to find a cadence for my Substack. I want it to be a leisurely, calming, rejuvenating, reflective, joyous read on Sundays. I may not write every week, so maybe fortnightly?

If you are here to read me, do drop me a line about what do you think?