लंगड़ा भूत(One legged ghost)

On a sultry summer day, while the fan made noise as it creaked to provide some comfort and sound of vehicles wheezed past the house in a daze, he was lying in his half sleeved under shirt and telling the same story again

But with added spices, each time

"Then the ghost was caught and split wide open. I put some chilli powder, turmeric, garam masala... in his stomach".
All the Indian spices would go inside then, one by one.
Each time there was increment or change in the ingredients which went inside.

My small brother sat and listened intently while me and my elder sister romped around him on bed...
And even at the age of 6, my child-mind could sense that this is a fake story, created by him and I knew that he continued with the story, without any plot, just to humour us.
And back then, my heart swelled with love for him..not knowing that these were the seeds of a bond which is meant to exist for a lifetime
I still remember his smell from that summer, a father's smell, which I never found in any other man

What makes it so difficult now? To see him in the same light as I saw him as a kid?

My father was never the preacher, teacher kind. I miss that sometimes, whenever I have to choose anything in life, I always know that its just me who has to find that direction for myself.
Papa has always left everything to his kids..
He does not believe in notions of right, wrong..or maybe he is so lost in his own world that he simply doesn't bother.

His knowledge of everything in life is awe-inspiring.
If its palmistry, our house would be inundated with books by "Cheiro"
If its chess, then Anand Vishwanathan, Karpov and Kasparov fill our mini-library
If its science, then stephan king, Issac Asimov
If its philosophy then Krishnamurty and the likes
And for plain fiction its Hermen hesse, Dyotsovesky, Milan Kundera..you name it we have it in our house

People read cos sometimes they want to be abreast with general knowledge, or sometimes to be part of the elite group which talks of intellectual stuff, or for their own use
If I had an ounce of my father's knowledge, I would have moulded it in my favor

But his knowledge is just a thirst, nothing to do with anything I mentioned above. This makes him someone I admire without restraints , despite everything else I dont and cant

He loves kids.

He was always the one to go to, if I wanted to get pampered
Ma dint have much patience with our small misgivings.
If I cut my finger a wee bit, Ma would just ask me to wash with dettol and put a band-aid. But I would go to him cos he showed all the concern in the world and make a huge thing out of any of my inconsequential ailments

If I wanted to buy a dress, I knew my mother would give me stories of how something is out of our budget, so all I had to do was ask papa
He would take me to the shop and without looking at the price tag, would choose the costliest dress for me, budget or no budget
Did he know that he was so much loved then?

When did I stop doing that? Going to him for anything?
Sometimes I feel both of us are punishing each other for our own follies..

Or maybe He has a love for children, which does not reach the realm of elders.

There is this small girl, 8-9 years old, our maid's daughter whom he treats like his own kid
I see her putting her arms around him as I used to, or demanding things with a right as I used to
and I feel a pang in my heart

Maybe I stopped making him so wanted and a father-figure, somewhere down the line, which this small girl still makes him feel
And thats the foundation of a bond between them, which I seem to have lost

Down the line, I must have made me feel alienated from myself

On this father's day, if I have to describe my father it would be these things:

1. A passion for books, never saw in anyone
2. Playing online chess for 6 hours in a day
3. His hiding his glass of drink in most weird places, lest the brigade of women at home jumps on him for having a drink on consecutive days
4. His reading out "Brother Karamazov" to Ma, while I lay beside him, not understanding anything of the book, but just my love and admiration for him multiplying in leaps and bounds

There can be many more such bullet points, but that summer day of my childhood and his brewing up story of लंगड़ा भूत, is etched in my memory and surpasses any and everything else about him