Dear Mahi,

In my last letter I talked about your mundan and your first visit to Himachal. In this letter, I want to talk about your Dadaji. You never met him as he left us in 2019. I want you to know how funny, kind, and a great human being he was.

He was a fun-loving man who could sit for hours and talk to people. People came to him with their problems. He would listen, and he would support them. He loved and respected almost everyone and I wonder how he managed to do that so effortlessly.

The kind of man he was

You might hear us talk about one tayiji. She had no home and a couple of children. Papa gave her our storeroom to live in until she, her brother, and her children could get back on their feet. Mummy told us that dadi maa didn’t like this, but papa just can’t see people suffer and not support them. He never asked for anything in return.

In our mohalla, the kids of my age remember him for cricket and chess. The children remember him for something simpler- toffees. He used to sit outside the house on a chair in the morning and ask every child who passed to say “Ram Ram” and gave them a toffee. Every single time.

Being his son

I used to love going out with Papa. He called me “latkan” sometimes as I was always latko-ing with him, always hanging around him. He would listen to my worries without judgment. He used to take me to his office during summer vacations, and I used to eat different sweets. His colleague used to call him “Dada”.

Once, after class 5th, I changed schools and lost touch with my friend Nitish. There were no phones, no internet, nothing. All I remembered was that Nitish lived somewhere near 80 Feet Road. I told Papa I wanted to find him. Papa took me there one evening after his office. We walked that road asking strangers if they knew a boy named Nitish. Nobody did. We came home without finding him. I was sad. But Papa did not give up. The next week, he took me again. I remembered that Nitish had once mentioned he would move to RK Mission School. Papa took me to that school. it was summer vacation and the school was empty. He explained everything to the office staff and personally requested the principal. They agreed to give us the address. We went to Nitish’s house. He was not there, but his mother and younger brother were.

Mahi, Papa took time out of his office, convinced a school principal during summer vacation, and found the house of a boy- all because his son wanted to meet a friend.

Nitish and I are not in touch anymore. We are both busy with our own lives.

Those were simple times, Mahi. We did not have many things. For instance, we did not have a shower at home. So, Papa had his own solution. He would hold his hand out above my head and pour water slowly from a mug. It felt just like a shower. I thought we were living in a film.

I have so many stories about him. I can write books about it.

He loved eating paan. And he loved his family.

Papa loved Mummy deeply. He never raised his voice at her. When he was angry, he didn’t speak. Sometimes he would not speak for a month, and he would not eat at home during that time. I did not like that about him. It was the one thing I wished he would change.

In 2011, when I was leaving for college, I cried at the railway station and asked him not to do that anymore. I told him that mummy would be alone after didi and I moved out of house, and she needed him. He listened. He never did it again after that day.

His love for festivals

Papa loved every festival with his heart. Diwali was always special- he would get us as many patakhe as he could manage. Once, an anaar burst and burned his hand. He did not make a sound. He quietly went inside and told Mummy. He never wanted to worry us or dampen the celebration.

He loved Holi too. Holi is my favourite festival as well, Mahi and I think some of that love came from him.

His love for cricket and for me

Papa was a good cricketer- a batsman and a leg spinner who got his job because he could play for the organization. He was an ardent fan of cricket and WWE(F) wrestling. He motivated me to play cricket, came to the field to watch me, and celebrated every small victory.

Once, because of luck and overnight rain that dampen the field, I took four wickets in a single morning. Papa was there watching. Our team won. The boys carried me on their shoulders. Papa talked about that day for a month.

My favourite memory is of Dusshehra and Janmastami mela. He used to take me to the mela every year. He would carry me on his shoulders and take me to every swing I asked for, including maut ka kuan. He will buy sweets, chaat, dosa for your bua and me. He never said no. I would buy three Dhanush-baands and three gadas– one for your Taya Anurag, one for your Chacha Shanu who is no longer with us, and one for myself. Mummy would sometimes get worried because money was tight, but Papa never said no.

His pride in me

When I got distinction in four subjects in class 10th, Papa was overjoyed. It was a big thing for him. He promised me a cycle and he got me one. I still remember the name. It was a Nucleus. I still wonder how he managed the money for it.

When I got into college in 2011, he told everyone he met. I kept asking him to stop as I believed in najar, and I was afraid that something would go wrong if people knew.

He wanted to come to the airport to see me off when I left for the United States in 2019. He had booked his ticket. But five days before my departure, he fell ill. He was admitted to hospital on 15th August 2019. It was rakhi and I was in Jaipur at your bua’s place. My flight was on 20th August. His and Mummy’s tickets were for 18th August from Kanpur to New Delhi. I did not cancel his ticket. He had only wanted to say goodbye to his son, and I still get angry and think that it was unfair that he couldn’t. I remember everything of that time and following year.

The times I saw him cry

I saw my father cry four times or at least four times are the ones I remember.

The first was on Lohri, sometime before 2000, when we still lived in our ancestral home. Your Rishu taya came back from the hospital that evening, and Papa had tears in his eyes when Rishu bhaiya was brought in the room. He loved all the children.

The second time was when we left our ancestral home. As we walked out for the last time, he picked up a handful of soil from the gate and placed it on his head, and he wept.

The third time was during Diwali when I was in class 8th. He had broken his toe. We had no income for three months. I was crying because I wanted patakhe and Mummy was saying no. He cried too as he has never said no to me. We all cried that night. For next few years, I hated the festival Diwali. I will tell you more about those years someday, Mahi. You will understand how this family was built.

The fourth time was when I came back from the United States in 2019. I went straight to the hospital. In that first moment, he did not recognise me. Then he did. We brought him home after two or three days. It was one of the hardest decisions of my life. One afternoon, I came back from the insurance office. They were refusing to reimburse the hospital expenses. I was bringing your taya’s bike into the house as we did not own one of our own. I heard Papa talking to Mummy. He was saying: why are you wasting my son’s hard-earned money on me? And he was weeping. Mahi, that moment broke me completely. I went to him and told him we wanted him to get better. I was naive. We lost him within a month.

How different we were and how I am trying

People used to tease me as a child that I was nothing like my father. He was kind. I was angry. He gave things freely. I fought for everything. The only common thing, I want to believe, was both of us were funny.

Once during a cricket match, the other team lost a ball and refused to pay for it. I took their bat and brought it home. They complained to Papa. He made me return it. He was not angry. He just tried to make me understand.

I am still trying to be like him, Mahi.

In his last days, he told me something. He said “…Kabhi hataash mat hona…”  I try to live by that. Some days it is easier than others.

Why I am writing this

Mahi, I miss my father every day. He was the greatest man I will ever know because he was genuinely good. He was kind and loved without conditions. He gave without keeping score.

I want you to know him. Not just as your Dada, but as a person. A man who gave his store room to a woman with nowhere to go. A man who sat on a chair outside his house and gave toffees to children. A man who just knew how to share love.

There is one thing that breaks my heart more than anything else, Mahi. I wanted your mumma and you to meet him. I wanted him to hold you, play with you, and watch you grow. He would have loved you like crazy. And I just know that you would have spent most of your childhood on his shoulders, just like all the kids growing in the household did.

I still cry thinking about him. I hope someday, when you read this letter, you will feel something for a man you never met because he would have loved you more than you can imagine.

With all my love,