Home > Uncategorized > Dear Baba,

Dear Baba,

I know you’ll be proud of this. Unlike many other fathers. Because you will know why exactly I started my letter with an ad. Simply because I couldn’t find any greater analogy to describe our relationship. Like the great David Abott did for this Chivas Regal ad.

Making money out of emotions?

Staging up a emotional tear-jerker to get people buy a bottle?

I’m sure you’ll understand Baba. David Abott loved his father. And he loved his job. These are the two strong passions he combined to create this masterpiece. He wasn’t the least dishonest. In fact, this was as honest as he could get.

I am writing this letter for the same reasons. Because, I will never ever be able to tell you these things on the face. We’ll be talking of birds and bees, and definitely not how I feel when you hold my hand. Sentimental sissyness. Ain’t your style 🙂

I’m missing you Baba. And am feeling lonely. I have no one you know. And your ailment, it’s eating me up. I’m not being able to visit you at the hospital. And I know just how much you’re missing me. How much you’re missing my whiny voice that keeps on complaining about all conceivable aches in the body. The voice that dares to tell you on the face that you’re wrong. The person that snatches away the sugar tin and almost follows you around at weddings to see whether you’re sneaking up to have red meat.

Remember you went to this plush party of your collegue? I was in this meeting when a worried voice floated over the phone, “Can I have pasta? There are too many things around. I don’t know what to have!”

“Yes Baba, you can have pasta. That’s not too spicy. No red meat and no sweets. Do you…..?”

Phone disconnected. Just like you. You never learnt to express things. My eyes were brimming with tears by the time I removed the phone from my ear. And I could see your broad smile without seeing it.

I know you’re suffering. You expect me to look after you.And you wait for me to call. And you love to give an impression that I’m just disturbing your peace. “I am alright! Stop panicking! You, your mother, all the same! Can’t hold your nerves for a second!”

You never could discuss my love life with me. Sometimes I grow so frustrated with the fact that you refuse to see the obvious. I’m a woman. There are ‘girl problems’. Am not a kid anymore. Every time a guy issue comes up, I suffer from this uneasy fear of having to consult you for ‘personal’ matters. But I turn childishly adamant.

Why will Baba not litsen to me on personal issues? Am not a kid anymore! I demand my attention!

(You’ll be surprised to know that I surprise myself with this tendency. The tendency of telling you and Ma every single detail, even the very private ones. I know am being unwise. But, can’t stop myself. I have this conscience problem)

And when am clearing my throat to resume on the ‘uncomfortable topic’, you could cut the tension between us with a knife. You’re expertly scrutinizing a stale newspaper that has already been memorized to the T. Both of us are sweating inwardly. And I get the feeling that you’re much more nervous than me.

I know it when I see it. And strangely, I want to see more of it. I volunteer dishing out the uncomfortable information. It definitely should be a saditic battle. A one-up ego conflict.

“Am having gynaec problems. Doc says I’ll have problems conceiving.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me about Sex?”

“I need a hug,. Now! ”

(this is a particularly difficult one for you and also the one I enjoy the most! I can tell you’re in deep soup. After some lame attempts to divert the subject to ‘birds and bees’ you give in with a squeeze on my little finger. You’ve got this forever lasting fascination for my little fingers. And you keep reminding me that I was born with an extra finger on each hand. And to this day, you grumble about having to pay for the operation. “I got the signal that you’re going to be a difficult child. Whoever is born with 12 fingers?)

And there are things you think I don’t know but I do. In fact, mostly, you don’t know them yourself. But I always do.

Like your problem in expressing things. Your problem in letting your softer side show. I’ve never seen you cry. And I don’t remember a single hug from you in 25 years. When I suffer too much, from mental and physical pain, I understand that you’re in pain too. When I had the last depressive bout, nobody could get me me to touch food. I shrieked and locked myself up.

But I couldn’t resist your firm knock and firm voice, “We’re waiting for you at lunch.” I let you in and I stopped sobbing because I don’t like to let pain show before you. You obviously had no idea how to get me to eat. And you were definitely not going to implore. You sat down and looked straight up towards the collage I had done on my wall.

“Hey that’s mighty nice! Who’s that below Steve Jobs?”

“It’s by a photographer named x.”

“You’re buying too many books. And do you know how much your mobile bill is coming to?”

“Please. I don’t want to hear about it. Am leaving this place. It suffocates me.”

“I’m taking this copy of Reader’s Digest with me upstairs. You done with it?”

“Yes. Read the story on Anne Frank. It’s good.”

“Okay. Let’s go have lunch. I am tired and hungry.”

And then, like an unwritten truce, the clouds lifted and the Sun showed through. We had lunch and settled down to some good old ego-battles. I saw Ma sigh with relief from the corner of my eye. Didi yawned and went to bed.

You and me. We quarelled on.

Am missing you. I want you to come back tomorrow. We have a lot of catching up to do. About how ruthless office is getting. About a party which I call ‘Alcoholic Gathering’ and me having nothing to wear. Quarrel about the disease you’ve caught. You being reckless in food habits. And the age old debate on why you invested all my money.

“Am tired of the silly premiums. I may not even live long enough to get the money back! And mediclaims and insurance. I’m not even marrying. What do I do with them. Why can’t I have more money in my hand?”

And you’ll give that knowing smile and tell me how it is important to save young so that your future is secure. Young people don’t understand. And this generation. Well you’ve lost hope.

And while we chatter, I pop up the question that perhaps you cannot answer and I cannot ask.

“Baba, do you love me?”

Don’t take the trouble of fetching Bengal’s politics and my irresponsible behaviour from nowhere.

Because I know the answer only too well.


Yours Joblessly,   The Jobless Ideator


P.S. – a song for all the fathers who fumble on the matters of the heart.

(thank you Soham Gupta for bringing this song into my life)


Categories: Uncategorized
  1. Neelansh itkan
    January 7, 2012 at 7:25 am

    Choked! No words on this side.
    I’ll write on some other post, please don’t dare to think that I am being Rude.
    and ya.. You Get a Job!! 🙂

  2. Soham
    January 7, 2012 at 12:59 pm

    Wishing mesho all the strength life can offer. I hope he’ll be fit pretty soon.

    Have faith…

    Power be with you…

    • January 8, 2012 at 8:04 pm

      Thanks so much Soham. I surely hope we tide over bad times. Waiting forsome good work from you. Take care. 🙂

      Yours Joblessly, The Jobless Ideator

  3. January 8, 2012 at 6:11 pm

    Unfortunately, I do have a very stressful Job 😦
    And thanks for dropping by 🙂

    Yours Joblessly,
    The Jobless Ideator

    psssst – Neel, if the ‘Jobless’ tag is pure sarcasm. It comes from the look I get from the sane people, when I say, ‘Could you please shut the door when you leave. I have to put down an idea that’s lingering in my mind. And my dear grandma mumbles on “Get a Job!” 🙂

    Great going in your blog by the way 🙂

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