“Some children grow up in houses.
I grew up in the warmth of a man.”
Every child has a first hero.
Mine was never a fictional character.
Mine was Appa.
When I think back to my earliest years, I don’t remember events in perfect order. Memory isn’t like that. It arrives in colours, sounds, smells and feelings.
And every one of those memories begins with him.
I was his second daughter.
In a time when many families quietly longed for a son, my arrival filled him with nothing but joy.
Every single time he narrated that day, his face transformed into that of an excited young father.
He never grew tired of telling that story.
Perhaps I stared at him with wonder.
Perhaps I held his finger.
Perhaps I simply slept peacefully, never knowing that the man looking back at me would become the compass of my entire life.
Looking back now, I think I met my North Star on the day I was born.
If my sister was the quiet child, I certainly was not.
I was curious.
Talkative.
Endlessly energetic.
I sang.
I danced.
I narrated endless stories.
I asked impossible questions.
I touched everything I wasn’t supposed to touch.
And through it all, Appa rarely interrupted.
He would simply watch.
There was always a quiet smile waiting at the corner of his lips, as though he found joy simply in watching me become myself.
I never wondered whether he loved me.
Children know these things instinctively.
I simply knew.
Summer holidays had only one definition for me.
Going to Appa’s office.
Those mornings felt like adventures.
I loved travelling with him on the university office bus.
The journey itself made me feel important, as though I belonged to his world.
His colleagues welcomed me with such affection that, over time, many of them became my own friends.
Some were old enough to be my parents.
Some became my favourite companions.
Years later, during middle school, I even joined the ladies from his office on their girls-only outings.
Looking back, I realise that wasn’t ordinary.
It happened because everyone around him treated me as though I belonged among them.
That was the respect he had earned.
Inside the university, I found my own little kingdom.
While Appa worked quietly at his desk, I built a world beneath it.
That tiny space under his table became my favourite place in the building.
I would sit there happily eating my snacks and lunch while conversations floated above me.
I claimed every piece of stationery I could find.
Fresh sheets of paper.
Pencils.
Markers.
Carbon paper.
Stacks of unused forms.
The office printer fascinated me.
I loved watching pages emerge one after another.
I traced drawings.
I coloured them.
I printed anything that caught my imagination.
To me, the university wasn’t an office.
It was a giant playground.
And somehow Appa made room for me in it without ever making me feel like a burden.
He never believed that fatherhood ended when office hours began.
He was present.
Completely present.
Morning began with making sure everyone had what they needed before leaving for work.
On his way home each evening, he would call us individually.
“What do you need?”
Not one question for the family.
A separate question for each person.
Amma.
My elder sister.
Me.
Later, my younger sister.
If someone needed notebooks, they arrived.
If someone needed chart paper, he brought it.
Pens.
Maps.
School supplies.
Household groceries.
Whatever was needed somehow found its way into his hands before he reached home.
He carried everyone’s invisible list inside his heart.
I remember watching a television advertisement once.
A little girl proudly declared,
“My dad is the best.”
I remember feeling strangely jealous.
Not because I wanted her father.
Because I was convinced she had never met mine.
In my little world, nobody came close.
Not even a little.
I didn’t simply love Appa.
I adored him.
I admired him.
If I am honest…
I worshipped him.
Perhaps that is why, as a little girl, I constantly competed with my mother for his attention.
It embarrasses me now.
But children love without diplomacy.
I wanted him all to myself.
When Amma showed him affection, I secretly felt jealous.
There were days I was unfair to her simply because she loved the same person I loved most.
Only after becoming a mother myself did I finally understand her heart.
Motherhood softened something inside me.
It allowed me to love Amma in ways I had been too immature to understand as a child.
Whenever Appa left home without me, something inside me felt incomplete.
If he travelled for even a day, I became restless.
Sometimes, I would even fall sick.
As dramatic as it sounds, my little body seemed unable to accept his absence.
When he returned, everything felt normal again.
That was our bond.
It wasn’t something either of us spoke about.
It simply existed.
Like breathing.
He was a strict father.
But not in the way people imagine.
He rarely cared about marks.
He cared about character.
Discipline.
Punctuality.
Cleanliness.
Respect.
Devotion.
Those mattered far more than report cards.
If I came home with average grades after trying my best, he was proud.
Effort impressed him.
Results did not.
That lesson quietly became one of the foundations of my own parenting.
Today, with my daughter, I often hear echoes of Appa.
I praise sincere effort long before I praise achievement.
Some inherit jewellery.
Some inherit property.
I inherited a philosophy.
And I think I received the richer gift.
There is a saying that children become the living continuation of their parents.
If that is true, then pieces of Appa continue to walk this earth through me.
Every time I choose patience over perfection.
Every time I listen before judging.
Every time I celebrate effort instead of outcome.
Every time I try to make my daughter feel like the luckiest child in the world.
In those moments, I meet him again.
Not in memory.
But in myself.