Check out 16 Return-To-Work Programs In India For Ambitious Women Like You!
This father daughter story comes in many shades. A daughter recounts her relationship with her father and the colours that bind them.
Dad, Papa or Baba; how do we visualize this name, so short, crisp and sweet. The relationship is all a blend of the above adjectives with a tint of various shades. Pink, Red, Yellow, Green, Blue and Love (that’s a shade too).
The colours speak of different emotions. The bond between a father and his daughter is a very interesting tale, all meshed between extremes.
We sit together. We are two extremely generous people, father and daughter; sipping hot coffee, the dialogues pour in; it may be from the latest movie in the theatres or about hot political potboilers. The pinkish colour of our mood shifts to purple. I speak, he vehemently disagrees, I agree, he accepts, I reject, he brings forward the best logic and I turn on my grey cells for the latest views and opinions. Softly spoken words gently washed away, we pitch it a bit higher, the debate takes a stormy twist. I start loving it, he enjoys it too, and our cups of coffee smile in a light brown shade. That is colour, that is tint.
He cooks, I stay awake to study for my exams. He steals a glance every time from the corner of his spectacles and I hold his glance back. He asks, “Would you like your chicken to be a bit tangy?” I get up and go to him asking, “Dad I was studying and from when did you started asking me about the tanginess of chicken? You make it your own way anyway!” I know his spying tactics and I loved the tanginess too. The colours had turned bright red with the spiced red chicken in hot brown sauce; yes, Dad spelled magic and colours too in my life.
He came to me that day. No, he did not embrace me like Mom used to do. But his eyes had the pain which I could feel. He hadn’t been well since a few days; the reports were a bit scary, he knew. He smiled at me, the soup he had made was crystal clear, with his not-so-clean apron tied around his waist. The bulging graph of his waist spoke about his careless attitude. he was ageing, he cared less for himself these days. His words were moulded with strength, I felt warm, smiled, the grey shades had turned pink. His sad eyes spoke to me, he loved me, and he cared for me more than I did. I whispered in his ears, “I am fine, I am happy, I am in the pink of my health, now let’s divide the soup into two halves.” He laughed, we hugged, we ate.
And then I left him to be married. He is far from me, but I still find him every day when I wake up; yes, he does argue a lot and I don’t just take his words either, he speaks less now, he is older. But I love it when his words are pitched high, it reinforces the fact that he is still young. I love it that way these days.And his smiles I hear them. Yes, I do hear smiles nowadays and his tears, I don’t know, he never showed them to me after I got married.
That’s my Dad. A little different, but I still find all the colours in him and he finds his whole universe within me. We laugh, we smile, and we make rainbows every day with the shades we gathered when we lived together.
Colourful hands image via Shutterstock
Ronita- Maitra Bhandari is a Creative Writer/Blogger. Her passion for written words have always kindled the spirit in her to write anything and everything that stimulates or stirs her mind. Juggling words and meandering read more...
Women's Web is an open platform that publishes a diversity of views, individual posts do not necessarily represent the platform's views and opinions at all times.
Stay updated with our Weekly Newsletter or Daily Summary - or both!
Neena was the sole caregiver of Amma and though one would think that Amma was dependent on her, Neena felt otherwise.
Neena inhaled the aroma that emanated from the pan and took a deep breath. The aroma of cumin interspersed with butter transported her back to the modest kitchen in her native village. She could picture her father standing in the kitchen wearing his white crisp kurta as he made delectable concoctions for his only daughter.
Neena grew up in a home where both her parents worked together in tandem to keep the house up and running. She had a blissful childhood in her modest two-room house. The house was small but every nook and cranny gave her memories of a lifetime. Neena’s young heart imagined that her life would follow the same cheerful course. But how wrong she was!
When she was sixteen, the catastrophic clutches of destiny snatched away her parents. They passed away in a road accident and Neena was devastated. Relatives thronged her now gloomy house and soon it was decided that she should be married off.
Being a writer, Nivedita Louis recognises the struggles of a first-time woman writer and helps many articulate their voice with development, content edits as a publisher.
“I usually write during night”, says author Nivedita Louis during our conversation. Chuckling she continues,” It’s easier then to focus solely on writing. Nivedita Louis is a writer, with varied interests and one of the founders of Her Stories, a feminist publishing house, based in Chennai.
In a candid conversation she shared her journey from small-town Tamil Nadu to becoming a history buff, an award-winning author and now a publisher.
Nivedita was born and raised in a small town in Tamil Nadu. It was for schooling that she first arrived in Chennai. Then known as Madras, she recalls being awed by the city. Her love-story with the city, its people and thus began which continues till date. She credits her perseverance and passion to make a difference to her days as a vocational student among the elite sections of Madras.
Please enter your email address