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Sher di Bacchi

T. SHER SINGH

'sher di bacchi' - The Brood of a Lion.

Yesterday, October 7, we celebrated my father's life - it was the 21st anniversary of his death.

Today, October 8, we celebrate yet another gift - the 35th birthday of my daughter.

Second only to the day she was born, I get immense joy every time I think of the very first day I took over the responsibility of being a single parent ... and discovered that my life was going to be full of riches thereon.

This story goes back to the beginning of my final year in law school. Over the summer, I had separated from my wife of eight years and we were divorced. She moved back to India.

My daughter was a few weeks short of four years.

I was still flush with the miracle that she would be living with me.

But it wasn't until I woke up that morning  - I had moved into the house with her only the night before - that I realized the enormity of the challenge I had undertaken.

Until that morning, I had been the stereo-typical father, spending a choice few minutes every morning and evening with her, between rushing in and rushing out on some errand or mission, supposedly urgent and important.

Now, suddenly, as I heard the noises from the room next door confirming that she was up and would be charging into my room any moment, I felt the realization creeping over me that I had taken on a task far bigger than I had even imagined in the intense desire to have her live with me, and the euphoria of being given the opportunity.

Promoted overnight from a part-time father to a full-time father and mother, I did not have a clue as to the routine I was to follow, now that my three-year old was awake and about to enter my bedroom.

Which she did within moments.

We played for a while.

When she retreated into the bathroom to wash and bathe, I hovered outside, asking pointed questions.

"Have you brushed your teeth?" "Washed behind the ears?" "The ankles?"

Though her answers were reassuring for me, I quickly sensed that my questions merely revealed my discomfort at my own inexperience.

She emerged from the bathroom with a twinkle in her eye.

"Okay, Dad," she said, "it's time to do my hair."

Do her hair?

It was beautifully thick and heavy, falling down to the waist, woven into two neat braids.

But I had never done braids in my life! I didn‘t have the faintest clue.

She stood there before me, her face turned up, a mischievous gleam in her big eyes.

Several seconds passed as I remained frozen. Speechless. I had always prided myself as being a problem solver. But here was one that stumped me completely!

Defeated in the very first hour!

I must've looked terribly helpless.

She grabbed my hand. "You don't know how to do it?" she asked, but didn't even wait for my acknowledgement.

She tugged at me and led me into the bathroom. Pulled out a stool. Climbed onto it until she was level with the mirror. And announced, with a smile, "I can show you how to do it."

I thought it would provide an interesting interlude as I gathered my thoughts, and so played along in good humour.

She fumbled with the braids, trying to pry them open with her teeny little fingers. I helped unravel them until a shock of black hair cascaded down her shoulders.

"Okay. Now, first, brush my hair until it is neat," she instructed me. I did. That was easy.

"Now, part my hair from the middle."

I somehow managed.

"Divide up one side into three equal parts," and she showed me how to, her head nodding at me from the mirror in encouragement.

I was beginning to enjoy the game, inept though I was at it.

I noted how good she was in guiding me through the steps, and waiting patiently at each stage as I fumbled and repeated until I got it right.

Then, to my utter delight, she did the first few twists and said: "Now, Dad, you do the rest."

Her fingers were too small to manage the tresses beyond the first two manoeuvres.

But I messed it up.

She suggested I comb it over, divide it up again, and start the twists all over again.

We did it a few times until I got it reasonably right.

"Good," she said and patted me gently on the hand. "Now do the other side the same way."

The whole thing took half an hour. I could see that the final result was not spectacular. But she preened before the mirror briefly. Swung around to face me.

Game me a long hug and a kiss.

"That is very, very good, Dad."

I teetered between laughter and tears.

"Now, it's time for breakfast. Let's go, Dad."

We started down the stairs, I lingering in the back.

My mind was racing ahead, though. What did she have for breakfast, I asked myself. For the life of me, I couldn't remember.

In the kitchen, she saw me hesitate. Grabbed my hand and tugged me along. "You want me to show you how to make breakfast, Dad?"

Suddenly, I knew it was going to be all right.

My life had, overnight, become so much richer. More challenges, for sure. But a lot more fun and satisfaction.

And so it has been through the decades, all the way.

Happy birthday, Gehna!

Revised & re-published on October 8, 2013


 

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