“Love is rarely found in grand gestures.
More often, it lives in the things someone does every single day without ever expecting to be noticed.”
When I think of my childhood, I don’t remember expensive vacations or extravagant gifts.
I remember routines.
The beautiful, ordinary routines that quietly became the foundation of our lives.
Looking back now, I realize that those routines were love in its purest form.
Every morning, before the sun had fully claimed the day, Appa was already thinking about everyone else.
He remembered everyone’s needs while rarely speaking of his own.
Our home was not wealthy.
But it never felt lacking.
That is one of the greatest gifts Appa gave us.
We began life in a small house.
Nothing happened overnight.
Every year brought a little improvement.
A better home.
Better furniture.
Better schooling.
Better opportunities.
Our lifestyle grew quietly, one careful step at a time.
Only now do I appreciate how difficult that must have been.
He never allowed us to carry the burden of financial anxiety.
We simply lived as children should.
Secure.
Protected.
Content.
Today I understand that contentment had been purchased by someone else’s sacrifice.
If there was one thing Appa never compromised on, it was quality.
He believed children deserved dignity.
Our uniforms were always neat.
Our socks were spotless.
Our shoes were polished.
Our school bags were sturdy.
Our lunch boxes were good quality.
Even the smallest things—an eraser, a pencil, a ruler—were chosen with care.
He never bought simply because something was cheap.
He bought things that would last.
Perhaps that came from growing up without enough.
He wanted us to experience abundance in the ordinary things.
Knowing how hard he worked for every rupee, I treasured everything he bought.
I remember using a single eraser for nearly five years.
Not because we couldn’t afford another one.
Because I respected the effort that had placed it in my hands.
Even as a child, I understood that behind every school bag stood hours of my father’s labour.
Birthdays were never forgotten.
Neither were festivals.
No matter how busy life became, Appa ensured every celebration felt special.
There would always be new clothes.
A birthday cake.
Good food.
A carefully chosen gift.
He never let an occasion pass unnoticed.
One of my happiest memories is of dresses.
I adored frocks as a little girl.
Appa made sure each one had matching shoes.
My favourite pair was bright, glossy red.
I wanted exactly the right shade.
Not almost red.
Not close enough.
The perfect red.
Most parents would have settled.
Appa didn’t.
After finishing work, he patiently searched shop after shop until he found exactly what I had imagined.
He never complained.
He never hurried me.
He simply kept looking until his little girl smiled.
Whenever I think of those shoes, I no longer see leather.
I see love.
Some memories never fade—I still remember the warmth and comfort of falling asleep in my dad’s protective embrace, with a pillow carefully placed around me for my safety, and the countless little things he did every day, from keeping my bath towel ready to making sure everything I needed was in place.
His love shone through every small gesture, from lovingly placing a bindi on my forehead to smiling as I gave him playful back massages, leaving me with memories I will treasure forever.
Our house was always full of life.
Dogs.
Birds.
Fish.
Even chickens at different times.
No animal ever seemed unwelcome.
Together with Amma, Appa cared for each one with remarkable patience.
The same hands that held office files all day gently watered plants every evening.
Gardening was another quiet love my parents shared.
Our home bloomed because they tended it together.
Flowers.
Vegetables.
Trees.
Pets.
Children.
Everything seemed to grow under their care.
Looking back now, one image returns to me more than almost any other.
Evening.
Appa sitting comfortably on a chair.
A basket overflowing with onions and garlic beside him.
A small knife moving steadily through the pile.
It became such an ordinary sight that none of us questioned it.
Today I smile thinking about it.
If we combined every onion and every garlic clove peeled by Amma, my sisters and me throughout our lives, I doubt it would equal what Appa quietly peeled by himself.
It wasn’t only onions.
Bathrooms.
Sweeping the front yard.
Gardening.
Cleaning.
Shopping.
Cooking.
Packing lunches.
Nothing was beneath him.
At a time when many men believed household work belonged only to women, Appa simply did whatever needed doing.
Not because someone asked.
Because we were a family.
He never measured love by whose responsibility it was.
He measured it by whether someone needed help.
Sometimes, in the middle of a school day, he would appear unexpectedly.
Just to see us.
Just to hand us something.
Just to ask if we were alright.
There was never a special occasion.
He simply wanted to check on us.
Years later, I found myself doing exactly the same thing for my own daughter.
Only then did I realize that love often travels quietly through generations.
We become our parents in ways we never consciously choose.
As a little girl, I thought every father lived like mine.
As an adult, I know better.
Appa was present.
Not occasionally.
Not when convenient.
He was present every single day.
His love was never loud.
It was stitched carefully into breakfasts packed before sunrise…
fresh vegetables bought on the way home…
a basket of onions waiting every evening…
a pair of shiny red shoes…
a surprise visit to school…
a hot dosa shared after a scooter ride…
and four women who never had to wonder whether they were loved.
That was his masterpiece.
Not the house he built.
Not the money he earned.
Not the possessions he left behind.
His masterpiece was the feeling he created inside our home.
A feeling that, even today, remains impossible to replace.