My Daddy Strongest

There is something annoying about recollections, and there is something unputdownable about it.

The plump man, whom I have always known to be my father, is one of the few who makes recollection even more effortless.

I was in my 9th summer when he vanished in the nick of time. Since, I was not old enough to complain, I kept mum. The first year without him was about sincerely remembering him and giving in to melancholia. Few more winters whizzed past and Baba started taking refuge in occasional references. People in our relation and suspected well wishers kept the flame of pathos alive.

His memories started to wane in the din of growing up. Even his clothes, old-fashioned umbrella, heavy glasses and saved-up coins turned cold and disappeared from mind’s vicinity.

But memories are a persistent lot.

The germanium days with Baba and narrative nights of pesky ghosts and disobedient kids are all relived again and again.

Not everything was rosy though. Every Math session I used to have with Baba ended in disgust – a mutual feeling. Mental Math, as far as I remember, was a true jerk who tried to create a rift between us. There were thrashing and hugging, giggles and regrets and lot many dichotomies.

Now, when I look back in retrospection, the only question that crops up is why? Why did we do everything in a hurry?

I am not among the ardent takers of consolation, and yet I feel I spend more hours with him, when he is not around.

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