My reunion with my father, after a long period of estrangement, occurred serendipitously. Our paths crossed at a family wedding, a place known for both creating and mending grudges. Prior to the big day, I attended a casual gathering where I unexpectedly spotted my father. In my memory, he had always been a larger-than-life figure, but I was taken aback by his aging appearance and the toll that life had taken on his body. By that time, I was in my thirties and it had been two decades since we had last seen each other. I too had weathered the passage of time, exhausted from a long flight and feeling diminished. My father, dressed in his usual flamboyant style with a velvet blazer and maroon silk shirt, greeted me with his familiar smile – the one reserved for social events. There happened to be an empty chair next to him, so I nervously took a seat.
He poured me a small glass of wine, which I drank despite not really wanting it, to steady my nerves. Then, in a light and neutral tone, he asked about my travels. I responded that they had been fine, and in that moment, I felt a sense of relief. We had made an unspoken decision to set the past aside, at least for the time being, and move forward without bitterness or perhaps even memories, as those two things were intertwined. This marked the beginning of our renewed relationship, reconnecting on the fragile bridge of our shared past that had been constructed from unconventional and contrasting materials.
My parents first met in 1960s London. My father, a turban-wearing Sikh born in India, and my mother, a Catholic girl and the daughter of a bank manager, were both studying medicine. However, their interracial love was met with resistance and even physical assault due to societal unacceptance. Their marriage led to my father being disowned, extensive immigration paperwork, and a nomadic lifestyle, first in Canada and then in the United States. Eventually, they had three children, each with a different shade of tan. They were pioneers, even if their trailblazing efforts went unrecognized by others, including themselves.
My father was not an ordinary Western father. As a younger man, he was hot-headed and strict. He distanced himself from tasks such as changing diapers, reading bedtime stories, and comforting tears, leaving those responsibilities to my mother, who also had a full-time job. He loved luxury cars, fine dining, and indulged in television and Coca-Cola, much like his children. However, he did not engage in activities like video games with my brother or allow me to paint his fingernails. He never wore t-shirts, shorts, or sneakers, not even on Sundays. He put high expectations on his children, especially regarding academic performance. As second-generation kids, we were carefree, stained with grass, and addicted to junk food, more interested in the pleasures of our newfound home than doing geometry homework. We often disappointed him.
Though he leaned towards conservatism, he also embraced Western extravagance wholeheartedly.
During my childhood, I felt overshadowed by my father’s presence, but as a teenager, this feeling transformed into resentment. In primary school, I freely explored the neighborhood with my friends, but when I reached puberty, my father became overly suspicious of my independence. As a teenage girl, my developing body made me feel awkward and overly protected. I became a stay-at-home daughter, with soap operas, homework, and the kitchen telephone as my only distractions whenever my father was not at home. This loss of autonomy angered me, a sentiment I had inherited from him.
When I was 16, my parents divorced, a story that, although not uncommon, carried unique characteristics due to my British mother and South Asian father coming from different worlds. The conflicts in our household were a result of clashing traditions and irreconcilable differences. It was impossible to separate personal traits from cultural influences. Every conflict, whether related to generation gaps or gender roles, was intertwined with traditional values. No argument occurred without the presence of the stratified world outside our front door.
After the divorce, my mother gained custody, and my father moved far away, resulting in bi-annual visits. My siblings and I mourned the loss of the father we once knew and the father he could have become had he embraced my mother’s upbringing. However, I couldn’t communicate with him without being overwhelmed by a storm of emotions. In my youth, I blamed him for our misfortunes with the unforgiving righteousness only the young possess. A silence settled between us, growing stronger with each passing month and year. I soon realized that choosing a side meant severing ties not only with my father but an entire culture as well.
As I entered university and began exploring writing, I learned that stories devoid of empathy fall flat on the page, lacking vitality. I immersed myself in literature and history, embarking on my own global travels. I came to understand that our family’s saga was merely a small reflection of a much larger intercultural narrative. If India had not been colonized by the Raj, my father would have never left Punjab, never met my mother, and I would not exist as living proof of their extraordinary union, which was rare and even dangerous at the time.
In the years following the divorce, my anger gradually subsided, giving way to curiosity. I wondered about my father’s life, his daily routines, and how he spent his time. Despite his solitude, he had managed to rebuild a mostly contented life. Eventually, he became the type of person who would call me simply to chat, as if he had been waiting for the opportunity.
Both of us had changed as a result of the divorce and the subsequent lonely years. Life had softened us, like stones smoothed by nature. He still had his moments of grumpiness, but he had also become more considerate and appreciative. I was no longer the fearful child who wished to disown him. I had become a grown woman with my own husband and home. Whether or not I chose to be present in my father’s life was entirely optional.
During my childhood, I rarely shared laughter with my father, but now he would make witty jokes, often delivered in hushed whispers. He remembered the various houses we lived in, even those that I was too young to recall. He spoke of his childhood home with its avocado tree in the yard, a topic he seldom touched upon before due to the discomfort it brought.
Denial of responsibility! VigourTimes is an automatic aggregator of Global media. In each content, the hyperlink to the primary source is specified. All trademarks belong to their rightful owners, and all materials to their authors. For any complaint, please reach us at – [email protected]. We will take necessary action within 24 hours.
