Echoes of Fatherhood

I jolted awake as icy drops hit my face. "Dad!" I gasped, but he was already walking away. "School starts in thirty minutes," he said matter-of-factly. My father ran our household like a military boot camp. Everything was regimented: mealtimes, his yoga routine, even his bath, which he called “snanam.” Everything happened like clockwork. I sometimes think he took his teaching profession too seriously and brought the discipline of the classroom home with him. When friends visited, they marvelled at my luck to have a father like him; a compliment I nodded away with embarrassed indifference. He often brought home bundles of answer sheets, disappearing into his study until they were perfectly graded. His discipline extended beyond home. At airports, he'd dutifully follow the roped-off queueing path, even when he was the only person there. But sometimes, cracks appeared in his stern facade. During my transition to womanhood, he sat beside me quietly. "Take it easy. This is lifelong," he smiled, arms folded as if holding back emotions that almost slipped through. Then he predictably added: "Don't forget your book report," and hurried off like Mr. Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland. Years later, in my early twenties, I moved to Mumbai with him and started working as a TV host. Living with him felt like being a modern-day Rapunzel, trapped in a tower of extreme discipline, except my hair wasn’t long enough to bring a rescuer to the window! One day, I dragged myself to his retirement ceremony. Slumping mid-row, I pulled out my phone, grateful for the distraction. Well-dressed professionals filled the auditorium around me. Former students, I thought, probably there out of obligation. Soon, fragments of conversation pierced my distraction. "I resented his methods, but they made me successful." “His home became our second family," a distinguished gentleman continued. "He'd feed us, guide us, and pour his heart into our growth. We called it our gurukul." They were describing a man I'd never recognized. These weren't just former students, I realised. They were CEOs, doctors, success stories. And they were crediting their achievements to the very man whose discipline I'd spent decades resenting: Dad. The discipline I had once mocked was the very discipline that had touched and transformed so many lives. I'd been denying myself access to these readily available virtue all my life. My eyes darted towards the stage where my father sat humbly, overwhelmed by applause that seemed to last forever. Today, watching my children grow, I've finally grabbed my copy of discipline not from my DNA but from Dad's archive of LTE: Leading Through Example. Ages ago, he once said to me, “This is lifelong.” I can still vividly recall the fleeting softness of his smile, a reminder that beneath the strict exterior was a father preparing his children for life's challenges.