Is this for Papa?

I cannot imagine myself writing a story about my father who never really did anything exceptional nor had any out-of-the box achievements. But here I am trying not to sound too rude while stating this one sentence that I had always wanted to voice out to him.

I hate you, Papa.

I hate you for being the reason of me turning out to be an over-fastidious woman.

Let me back up my statement before everybody starts judging me. My father got married at 30; the marriage being arranged by his parents. My parents’ marriage was as traditional as it could go. They saw each other only four or five times before the day of their marriage, a full conversation being out of the book. Their 10-year age gap didn’t help it either. Their very different personalities were exactly the perfect cherry on top of the pile of dissimilarities those two humans possessed. Those differences are so evident that even after 34 years of them being together and seeing them all my life, I still sometimes ask myself how these two are still married.

For most people this is one of the best things they can have in life. Having parents who still love each other is almost like a fairy-tale to many. Trust me, I’m not being ungrateful. I’m just conveying my concerns and almost all of them sum up towards one person, Papa.

I won’t misguide my readers by saying I grew up with strict parents. In fact, my parents are the coolest anyone can imagine. They never stopped me from making friends or even dating. My mother used to be the one who would be more interested in the boys around me than I was. She never set me up with anyone, but I swear if she had the chance she would have.

The question is how my dating list remained empty for 24 years when I have chilliest adults as my parents.

I have only one word as the answer, Papa.

I can never forgive him for setting up the bar so high. Honestly, why would he do that? It’s not fair. He doesn’t know how hard it is to find someone who loves their partner like he loves my mother.

When I was younger, I remember telling my parents, “Ugh! You guys are boring.”

It was the truth. I did find their plain conversations about keeping up the family extremely monotonous. As a teenager back then, I had only known that unless you word out your feelings for a person, you don’t really feel anything for them. It was stupid when I think about it now. I realized later in life that every love is different and not each one of them must be verbal. What I also realized when all my friends had at least gone out on a date and I was still dreaming about some beast turning into a prince, is I wasn’t just short of luck, I was being picky.

It wasn’t like there weren’t nice guys around. The problem was with me. I didn’t know what I was looking for until one small trip.

It was around three-four years ago. I had been shortlisted for interview at a couple of prestigious research institutes. I was equally excited, as I was nervous. But that wasn’t the hurdle. The obstacle was the miles separating them from my city. Even if I was brave enough to overcome that my parents weren’t. Hence, the decision went like this.

Papa would accompany me, and mom will stay home.

This was something completely new for the family because we had always travelled together. We never had to move separately, let alone leaving mom home. To be honest, I wasn’t comfortable with that either. With my mom’s diabetes and occasional hypoglycemic shocks, it wasn’t something I wanted to do. Thankfully, my uncle lived nearby, and my aunt agreed to stay with mom for a few days. Everything went smoothly until my father, and I hopped on that flight leaving for Mumbai.

The moment we reached Mumbai and entered the hotel room we booked Papa went on to call mom. At first, it was okay. It was normal. The real problem started when the network began glitching and that little recording on the phone stated mom’s number was unreachable. Before that day, I had never really seen my father switch on the panic mode. After several tries, we went to the hotel reception and got to know that the lines would be down until next evening because of some storm.

We came back to our room and as I was about to be welcomed by my precious sleep, I heard Papa talking.

“Did she eat her dinner?”

Did she? Did who? Mom? I had the same question, but I wanted Papa not to worry so I simply replied, “I’m sure she did.”

“Do you think she took her meds?”

Now, that was a question that worried me because my mother had no habit of taking her own medicine as Papa always took care of that for her. But, at that moment, I couldn’t let that 60-year-old man worry about it.

“Aunt is taking care of her.”

“Do you think she will listen to your aunt?” My father’s voice was low and almost sleepy.

“Yes. She will. She can never deny Aunt’s request.” I tried to assure the man lying across the small room.

“Yeah, she will. She will.” His words came out as a whisper, almost as if he was talking to himself. I knew he was trying to soothe his own mind. But his mind was unusually loud tonight. I knew he couldn’t help it.

“Papa, go to sleep. We have a long day tomorrow.” I said, closing my eyes.

The day after went in a blur with tests and interviews and by the time evening rolled in, the network was reset. I knew Papa already had a talk with mom because he looked brighter than before. I was relieved knowing everyone at home is okay.

Papa started speaking on the phone almost 12 hours a day and rest of whatever time we had together, he would ask me things like, ‘Is she okay with living alone?’ ‘Does she feel bad because we left her home?’

This went on for the next two days. I was honestly getting tired of this. I said to him at least ten times, “She’s fine, Papa. And, literally, you just talked to her.”

I almost rolled my eyes when my father would reply with a “Still.”

By the end of that trip, I was exhausted, overwhelmed and mostly annoyed at my father’s childishness. I was going to complain about him to mom but that didn’t happen as I saw them meeting each other after a week.

I still can’t forget the happiness on their faces. I still remember my father’s smile and my mom’s fake-angry pout. I was happy, truly happy to see them like this. I was hoping to see some Bollywood romance starring my own parents.

Then, my reverie ended.

“The vegetable stock is almost at an end. I only had potatoes for the curry.” My mother’s voice sounded almost annoyed.

My father was going to reply but mom didn’t let him as she continued, “You don’t need to go to the market now. Have lunch.” Then, she looked at me and said to both of us, “You too look pale. You need my food to gain those weights back.”

I laughed out loudly as I said, shaking my head in disbelief, “Mom, after a week apart, that’s all you say.”

I looked at Papa for support but all I got from him was, “Please don’t start, you two.” Then, he looked at me and said with soft eyes, “Go, freshen up. Your mom has cooked for us. She’s tired.”

I stared at the duo as they went on about their day. At that very moment, I realized it was their love language. The simplicity of their love is too extraordinary for me. The love Papa has for mom isn’t something poetic, but he has his own way of setting up a rhythm so delicate that it’s almost heavenly.

I hate Papa for making me want to see that in my future partner. I hate Papa for being the most ideal version of a husband. I hate Papa for showing the way people can fall in love. I know how they fell in love. No, Papa never told me. But I just know.