The Two Species of Fathers

Some announced their arrival. Others joined the game.

Father’s Day is over.

Which is just as well.

No self-respecting father should agree to being celebrated for only one day a year.

Imagine informing a father that after 364 days of paying bills, fixing things, dispensing advice nobody asked for, and pretending not to be worried, he will finally receive official recognition on a Sunday in June.

Most fathers would consider this a poor return on investment.

Growing up, I gradually realised that fathers came in two broad categories.

Not scientifically.

Not biologically.

But accurately enough.

The first category was what I call the Footstep Fathers.

These men did not need introductions.

They did not need announcements.

Their arrival could be detected entirely through sound.

In my case, these were my uncles.

Farmers.

Men who left home before sunrise and returned when the rest of the world was only beginning to feel productive.

Their day often began with a large glass of black coffee and ended after hours in paddy fields and coconut plantations.

They were sturdy men.

Practical men.

Men whose conversations contained very few unnecessary words.

The remarkable thing was that the entire household possessed an advanced early-warning system.

The moment the sound of rubber slippers appeared in the pebbled compound, everyone knew.

The slippers would make that distinctive slapping sound.

Then came the footsteps.

Then the chair creaking.

Then the wooden drawer opening.

Then the drawer closing.

The sounds travelled through the house like official government notifications.

Children instantly adjusted their behaviour.

Games disappeared.

Noise levels dropped.

Homework suddenly became attractive.

Books were opened at speeds that modern technology has still not managed to replicate.

Had those men worked in national security, entire intelligence agencies would have become unnecessary.

To be clear, they were not frightening men.

They were loving men.

Responsible men.

Men who quietly carried entire families on their shoulders.

But they belonged to a generation that believed affection should be demonstrated through sacrifice rather than conversation.

You knew they loved you.

You simply weren’t expected to discuss it.

Then there was the second category.

My father.

My father was a farmer’s son.

But somehow, he had escaped becoming a Footstep Father.

Perhaps it was because he had studied in cities.

Perhaps it was because he was the youngest among his brothers.

Or perhaps he simply enjoyed confusing people.

Unlike his brothers, he moved effortlessly between generations.

He could sit with the elders discussing serious matters.

Then drift over to the younger crowd.

Then return to the elders.

Then drift back again.

Like a diplomatic envoy working both sides of a complicated peace agreement.

Family weddings were where his talents truly flourished.

The older generation would be gathered together.

The younger generation would occupy a nearby room, usually engaged in activities they preferred the elders not examine too closely.

And somehow my father belonged to both worlds.

At some point during the evening, he would appear among the youngsters carrying a small amount of money.

Not enough to create concern.

Just enough to participate in a card game.

He would sit down.

Play enthusiastically.

Lose steadily.

And appear delighted by the outcome.

The rest of us were trying to win.

My father appeared to be pursuing an entirely different strategy.

His objective seemed to be the efficient redistribution of money from one generation to another.

A sort of family welfare scheme disguised as gambling.

Eventually, every rupee would disappear.

He would smile.

Have a quick drink with the younger crowd.

Then wander back to join his brothers as though he had merely stepped out for fresh air.

To this day, I remain unconvinced he ever intended to win.

I inherited none of these talents.

I should make that clear.

When I enter a card game, I still nurture unrealistic expectations.

This is usually followed by realistic losses.

Then there was my father-in-law.

A wonderful man.

Highly educated.

Highly respected.

And firmly aligned with the Footstep Father tradition.

He worked in a senior government position.

Maintained impeccable discipline.

Practised yoga at four in the morning.

And treated ten o’clock at night as a constitutional requirement.

I sometimes suspected he believed the nation itself might suffer if he stayed awake until 10:15.

When I married his daughter, I sensed he was attempting to maintain a certain official dignity.

Not unfriendly.

Just formal.

Very formal.

The kind of formal that made you sit a little straighter without fully understanding why.

I, meanwhile, possessed the maturity of a man who thought making him laugh was an achievable long-term project.

So I waited.

Patiently.

Retirement eventually came to my assistance.

It softened some of the edges.

Not the yoga.

Not the discipline.

Not the sleep schedule.

Those remained protected by international treaty.

But the formality began to loosen.

The conversations became easier.

The distance became smaller.

And the man behind the title became more visible.

Looking back now, I realise that fathers rarely arrive in the same packaging.

Some lead through authority.

Some through friendship.

Some through discipline.

Some through humour.

Some announce their arrival through the sound of rubber slippers.

Others quietly join the card game.

Because every family needs at least one person who refuses to respect the boundaries between generations.

My father did it beautifully.

He could spend an evening with his brothers, wander over to the youngsters, lose money at their card games, share a laugh, and somehow belong to both worlds.

Looking back, I realise I inherited more from him than I thought.

I seem to have developed the same habit of drifting towards younger company, joining conversations, telling stories, and occasionally offering opinions that nobody specifically requested.

My daughter, nieces, nephews, and younger relatives are all far too polite to complain.

But I suspect they sometimes see me coming and think exactly what we thought when my father joined our gatherings.

“Here he comes.”

Poor youngsters.

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A Personal Note

Yesterday marked 23 years since my father left us.

As I was writing this story, I realised that many of the things I remember most about him are not the big moments, but the small ones—the conversations, the laughter, the card games, and the way he seemed equally at home with the old and the young.

Twenty-three years later, he still finds his way into my stories.

I suspect he always will.