I Kept My Promise
On April 8, after my father had died, I wrote to him:
“I will write a memoir for you documenting all the best moments of us.”
Appa,
I kept my promise.
I did not know how I would write your story.
I did not know where to begin.
I thought I would begin with your childhood.
With the boy who studied under streetlights.
With the young man who worked odd jobs.
With the football player.
With the student who wanted more from life.
But perhaps my story began before all of that.
Perhaps it began with me.
With the little girl you called your golden doll.
With the child whose eyes you said sparkled.
With the daughter who followed you everywhere.
The daughter who sat under your office desk.
The daughter who rode on your two-wheeler.
The daughter who demanded dosa.
The daughter who wanted red shoes.
The daughter who fought with her mother because she wanted her father all to herself.
The daughter who grew up.
The daughter who made mistakes.
The daughter who went far away.
The daughter who stayed silent.
The daughter who did not make it home in time.
I am sorry for the things I could not change.
I am sorry for the moments I wish I had handled differently.
But I know you.
And I know that somewhere beyond everything I regret, you understood me.
You knew my heart.
You knew I loved you.
And perhaps that is enough.
I do not want my final memory of you to be the day you died.
I want to remember you alive.
I want to remember your smile.
Your expressive eyes.
Your neat clothes.
Your good shoes.
Your music.
Your temples.
Your vegetables.
Your onions and garlic.
Your gardens.
Your pets.
Your kindness.
Your stubbornness.
Your temper.
Your forgiveness.
Your love.
I want to remember the way you looked at me when I admired the mountains.
The way you wanted Amma to see me enjoying the view.
I want to remember the way you searched for my red shoes.
The way you asked what everyone needed.
The way you fed us.
The way you dressed us.
The way you took care of us.
I want to remember the father who never said no to any of us easily.
And I want to remember the man who gave me the courage to become who I am.
I am not the perfect daughter you may have dreamed of.
I have made mistakes.
I have disappointed you.
I have caused you pain.
But I am still your daughter.
And I am still carrying you.
I will try to live well.
I will try to be kind.
I will try to forgive.
I will try to protect the people I love.
I will try to give my daughter the love you gave me.
And when she feels like the luckiest child in the world because of her mother, perhaps the most part of that feeling will belong to you too.
Because everything I know about loving a child began with being loved by you.
You did leave me an inheritance.
Not a house.
Not land.
Not wealth.
You left me your way of loving.
And that is the richest inheritance a daughter could ever receive.
The light of a North Star never truly disappears.
It simply travels farther than our eyes can see.
Every time I choose kindness over anger—
Every time I stop to admire the mountains—
Every time I tell my daughter that effort matters more than results—
Every time I surprise her at school—
Every time I forgive—
You are here.
And perhaps one day, when my daughter becomes the woman she is meant to become, I will look at her and understand you even more.
Perhaps she will carry something from me.
And perhaps I will carry something from you.
And perhaps, through her, something of you will continue travelling forward.
From one generation to the next.
Like light from a star.
Long after the star itself has disappeared from the sky.
Appa,
You are still here.
You are my North Star.
And I will keep walking beneath your light.
“The light of a star reaches us long after the star itself has disappeared from the sky. This is the story of the light my father left behind.”