An unexpected visit

My dad and I never seemed to agree on anything. As a child, I was malleable and tried to gain his approval, as children often do. I would pretend to agree with his point of view, even when I actually didn’t. As I entered my teens, the desire to please “Papa” gave way to the realization that the man I had grown up idolizing wasn’t perfect and that in most aspects, he and I were polar opposites. But I would still hold my tongue on most occasions. I found it easier to feign agreeableness, than to displease him, hear his criticism and feel utterly inadequate. It maintained a fragile peace between him and I, though it often left me feeling resentful. He did not reprimand me often. This feeling was not a part of our daily lives. But the resentment I felt was certainly a part of my love for him.

After my mom passed away, dad helped me through my grief and I tried to be there for him as well. All things considered, he was a good, loving father who did everything he could for me. However, on some level we both knew that we weren’t exactly close. We just preferred to pretend that the chasm between us wasn’t actually there. As I entered womanhood, the distance between Papa and I only grew. Now, our arguments were not between an adult and a child about which movie we should watch, where we should go for vacation, or even any differing political views. They were between a *woman* and her father who expected her to follow in his footsteps and become a lawyer.

Each of my visits home from college seemed more tense than the last. One moment, Papa and I would be talking pleasantly, and in the next the subject of my career would come up and our voices would clash like swords. He would tell me I was an idiot for not going to law school. I would reiterate my decision to become a filmmaker. It was my passion, I would tell him. It was uncertain and less promising that practicing law, he would retort. And so it would go on, and on. This disagreement caused a bitterness that seemed to bleed into all of our conversations. Conversations that soon became few and far between.

I did get into film school after getting my bachelors degree. And after that I moved to Mumbai, India’s film capital. After going through the years of struggle, learning and humiliation that comes with the territory of being a newcomer in an industry as competitive as this, I was finally able direct a full length feature film for a major studio. I would have invited my dad for the premiere, if he wasn’t too sick to travel.

As my career reached new heights, keeping in touch with my old man began to slide way down in my list of priorities. I was just too busy to go visit him. Our phone calls were short too. And conversations never went beyond small talk. I never occurred to me to ask him how he was doing, or if he was lonely. I didn’t share details of my work with him either, assuming that he would not be interested. I could only regret my callousness after he passed away. Of heart failure in his sleep. As I walked through my childhood home one last time, I saw the posters of my movies, and the countless paraphernalia related to them proudly displayed all over the house. The walls of my Papa’s study were covered in newspaper and magazine articles about me and reviews for my movies. I broke down into tears, surrounded by testaments to my father’s love for me and his pride in my accomplishments. I silently apologized to him for never making any attempts to mend our relationship.

About a month later, I drove home from a day’s hectic shooting . It was late at night and I only wanted to get to my apartment and greet my dog. As I approached my apartment building, I noticed that the vicinity was unusually quiet. Usually at this hour, there were at least a few night owls pulling into the parking lot. On this night it was empty. As I approached the elevator, I saw a man standing there with his back to me. As soon as I saw him, something about him seemed familiar. I didn’t have to spend time guessing who it was. He turned around and I saw the face of my father.

Papa smiled and walked towards me. I tried to speak, but my voice refused it’s office. I broke into cold sweat as my father, my dead father came close to me and held my hand. His touch was warm. He asked how I was. I stayed quiet. He told me he had wanted to come visit me in Mumbai for years but never could. I was still quiet. Whatever do you say to your deceased father who was standing right in front of you? He took me by the hand to the elevator. My feet seemed to move on their own accord as I followed him.

In the elevator cubicle, he told me all about how much he had loved the three movies and the one short film I had made. He told me he was wrong to not support me in my career choice as I clearly had a knack for what I was doing. Then, he told me what I had longed to hear for so long - that he was proud of me. I began to cry. Papa wiped my tears off, just as he had done so many times when I was a little girl. He told me he knew I was strong and that I would conquer any challenge life threw at me. And that he believed in me. I just stared at him.

The elevator reached my floor and we stepped out. I could hear my dog barking frantically, something he never did. He said he was glad I had gotten a dog, he knew I had always wanted one. As we approached my apartment’s door, I was able to overcome the shock of seeing Papa again. I spoke and told him that I loved him. He smiled at me and told me he knew. I rang the doorbell and could hear the dog sitter approach the door. As she opened it, I turned to look at my dad. But he was gone. I ran to the stairs, then the elevator. There was no sign of him.

My dog sitter asked if I was ok and why I was crying. I touched my cheeks to find that my tears hadn’t dried yet. I told her I was fine and that she could go home. Before she left, she told me my dog had been a bit antsy all evening. I said I would take care of him and thanked her.

I kneeled down and petted my good boy. He looked back at me with a look that combined affection and concern. An almost human look that dogs can express with such ease. He seemed to be telling me that he knew. He knew and that it was OK. I was going to be OK.

I got into bed but sleep was elusive. The next morning , I asked the building’s security to show me the security camera footage from the elevator I had used. As one would expect, the footage showed only me in the elevator. Did Papa really come to see me, or had I just hallucinated my interaction with him? I couldn’t ponder over it right then, as I had to get to work. I tried to stay focused, but the events of the previous evening didn’t leave my mind.

In the days that followed, a certain peace came over me. I stopped pondering over whether Papa had really been there or not. I simply accepted that he had. My dad came to see me just one last time so he could say to me all the things that he never said while he was in the flesh. I too had been able to tell him what I never could before. His words never left me. He had told me he knew I could overcome any challenge and I resolved to prove him right. I would become the pillar of strength he had always been. I was, after all, my father’s daughter.