Beyond the Surface - Appa

The Emergance
Till I was 13 or 14, my memories of my father are more transactional. I remember I would go to him for illustrations when doing homework because I couldn't draw. He would pick me up from dance class in Karol Bagh sometimes and bring me back home, but the journey would be mostly in silence. At night, before he went to sleep, he would tell me stories and start drifting off half way while I sat next to him and tried to nudge him back on track (yes, it would be bedtime for him and storytime for me). 

All my emotional cup was filled by my mother. She was there for everything, to give love, to scold, to fight with... - Basically, father was a part of the package who also contributed in those small ways.

Then we moved cities, I was older. My mother started going out to teach and would often not be there when my father returned from work. She told me a couple of times to make tea for him. I would be out all evening, roaming around the city, and would grudgingly take time off that to come home and do as bid. We would sit in the drawing room as he sipped tea, talking politely, and I would wait impatiently for him to finish drinking and go in to freshen up so that I could go out again. I felt like a hostess and my father the guest. He had a formal manner and he spoke in quiet tones, making polite conversation.

Slowly, the nature of our conversations turned. I discovered his deep interest in music, philosophy, language, history... Many things and resonated with them well. And I discovered, not a father but a friend. A person I could safely tell things to and not be judged or condemned. He had a broad mind and was hardly ever rigid or passionate about anything. There was no, "This is the way it has to be done!" Or, "This is who you should become!" I had always thought my mother was cool. But my dad was no less so! Now I had two people to go to for different things!  My mom remained my emotional anchor, but dad was there to gain different perspectives or just confide in.

Never Disappointed

He named me Meera because he was crazy about music and wanted me to become a singer. So he wanted to name me after the doyen, Smt MS Subbalakshmi. But he was far-sghted enough to know that the name may become outdated by the time I grew up and so he named me after the great Krishna devotee, Meerabai - a role that MS had donned in the epynomous movie. 

But I, though I learnt music and didn't disappoint him totally in that area, hardly lived up to his dreams. I somehow hated singing. More importantly, I couldn't stand being quizzed about ragas, which is what Carnatic music buffs thrive on - identifying ragas and telling you why two perfectly similar sounding ragas are actually different due to one or two notes being added, removed, or sung differently! I probably sang them correctly, but it was just - wait a minute - name and form. The essence was music. And so, singing would make me cry because I probably felt stressed. Though he was not formally trained, he absorbed everything my mother learnt so that it was hard to discern which of the two knew it first! And the ignoramous me felt totally cornered. They thought it was easy, but my mind is wired differently and it just doesn't bend that way.

So, was he disappointed that his only daughter refused to fulfill his dreams? Absolutely not. He would gently ask me to sing during the famed load-shedding nights in Kolkata, watch me howl as I sang and tell me, "You sing well!" He was that easy to please. And he had no qualms that I drifted towards dance. He supported it just as much as he would have had I chosen music as he dreamed. 

Of course, his sons made up for this lacuna. My older brother sings well and can discuss ragas with him with ease. The other would sing along whenever the two were together and also speak to him in Telugu adn Bangla, two languages he loved. But I am glad that I did make up to him by choreographing for the songs he composed and having him watch them being performed on stage.

Room for the Black Sheep

I remember, when we moved to Kolkata, I wrote an entrance exam to a reputed school and didn't get through. I was upset and nervous, fearing he would be angry with me. All he said was, "What's there? This is not the only school."

From being among the top few in the Delhi school, I started flunking in subjects with alarming consistency. But I have never seen him upset with me for that. Many have wondered at my calmness and patience. Even he started appreciating me for that in later years. And I tell him, "I learnt it from the pros, my parents." 

Despite having two IITians for brothers, there was neither pressure, nor a dismissal that "I am a girl so that didn't matter." In fact, I have never been made conscious either of my gender or even the skin tone, which is darker than that of my brothers, or anything else where comparison is possible and often made. I was just I and I was accepted and encouraged to be that.

Over the years, our conversations have remained just as deep and broad. He was always open with his appreciation, not just to me but everyone he met. Though not the outgoing, social kind, all who interacted with him remember him for his broad thinking and the encouragement he gave for even the slightest effort.

He passed away also in the most silent and unobtrusive manner that was so typical of him. So, it has not hit home yet. But it will, when I can't pick up the phone and tell him a development that he would find interesting. When I can't ask him doubts in language. When I can't discuss philosophy or purana.

He was helpless in many ways - couldn't learn technology - even operating the remote, wasn't savvy and relied on all of us for smaller things. Still, the only feeling that dominates my mind is gratitude - for having such a father, for having scratched the surface and gone deeper, and for discovering a mind that went beyond the mundane. He nudged me unwittingly towards enquiring about Moksha. Most of my knowledge about puranas and itihaasas come from him.

I am sure, such a soul can only reach sadgati. I pray that he reaches his true home or attains a birth that will lead him there. 

Om Shanthi