Stand by me

Prelude

I have been in writing hibernation for a few months now, wondering when summer will come.My dad passed away on the 9th of August, after a brief battle with cancer.

Truth be told, I am still grieving — still in a state of quiet shock.I cannot believe that he is no longer with us in person.

Sometimes I picture him sitting in his chair, in his room — poring over some bill, doing a bit of mental math, or reading a book on J.R.D. Tata — and I wonder at the fleetingness of life.

I wrote this when Dad was around, on one summer evening, trying to talk him out of something.(I lost, as always.)

In Kolkata, early this year , meeting an old friend.

My dad.The Phantom... in white pyjamas and Ts.

He’s 80 years old. Thriving.With a deliciously wicked sense of humour.His tongue can be savagely caustic. A mixed bag of contradictions, he is.

Still carrying a generous crop of hair — streaked generously grey, but hair nonetheless.(My husband is bald, just saying. For hair perspective.)

Dad is stubborn, strong-willed, fiercely independent — like most dads in every

Indian family.

But what makes him different, I wonder?

He has the will and energy of an 18-year-old.Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating wildly here. Hold your horses, girl — maybe that of a 40-year-old —but believe me, his energy levels will shade us. (Just riffing.)

He was playing ping pong the other day (not the pickleball kind — he’s a purist) with such sass, I hid the ball under the table just to catch my breath.

“Give me Red, !!!” he yelled one morning.

I was in the kitchen, sipping my hot cup of chai.

Rudely jolted out of my thoughts, I scratched my head.Red Bull? He doesn’t need it.The drink needs him.

Then it dawned on me. He meant the batteries — Everyday Red, for his Samsung watch.Their old-school slogan? “Give me Red!”

Classic dad moment. Chaos, comedy, and clarity — all in one.

Dad is obsessed with walking, step counts, and symmetry.The coffee cup? Always nudged to the centre of the table.He worries it might fall and crash into a million smithereens.

“It’s just a cup,” I reason. But to my dad, it’s geometry, feng-shui, and peace of mind.

He is dead centre always — sometimes swinging left, sometimes right.“The nation wants to know,” yelled a popular news anchor on TV,and I chuckled — yeah right! Go figure.

Fasting or feasting, rain or shine — 7,000 to 8,000 daily steps must be clocked.No sun is strong enough, no darkness deep enough to stop him.

Mota Madi (terrace in Tamil), driveway, or just pacing the length of the house — he will walk. Arms swinging, eyes steely, expression brooking no nonsense...White pyjamas flapping in the breeze like flags of quiet defiance.

Like a Phantom — stealthy and silent, walking and counting his steps. I wonder what happened to his skull cave and those chests of treasure inside.

I need to snap out of my reverie and come down to brass tacks .Building a brand is far more complex, layered, and insanely difficult.

He wanted to walk today. It was dark, and the skies were threatening to open up and pour down buckets of rain.

I said no. He said yes.

We parleyed for a while — a quiet, familiar tug-of-war.It ended with a firm no from me.

He looked at me, woeful and sad, and I felt a familiar pull in my chest. My dad is getting old all right. Regressing into what I think is a second childhood.

Petulant and angry like my son acts, he stormed off.

I exhaled deeply. Felt the tension leave my chest.Then I acquiesced — to a short walk around the neighbourhood.

I followed him, walking softly and gently behind.

When the night has comeAnd the land is darkAnd the moon is the only light we’ll see...

Don’t be afraid, Dad.For I will always stand by you.

Written in memory of my father — who walked through life with courage, grace, and a wicked sense of humour.