The Anchor
“He isn’t Superman.
He is my father.
And human — the toughest avatar of existence.”
Author’s Note:
This started as an attempt to write about my father — a man of quiet strength, straight talk, and unswerving loyalty. What it turned into is part recollection, part confession.
I wrote this, not because he needed to hear it, but because I needed to say it, while he is still here, in his living years, doing sudoku somewhere, still standing guard, even if a bit quietly now.
This is not a perfect tribute. It’s not meant to be. It’s simply a small note from a son, still trying.
I’ve been meaning to write about him
for a long time now.
Years maybe.
Don’t know why I never did.
Did I take him for granted?
Someone who would be around.
Always?
And I could write whenever?
After this? Or that?
Maybe I thought of negotiating
life’s other dares first?
That they seemed more testing
than the aplomb
of his steady bearing?
Or maybe because
I thought he couldn’t be written.
Perhaps, if I tried,
I’d mess it up.
It could also be
that I never felt ready to face
how much I fall short.
Well he is 3 inches taller,
but on a serious note,
it’s the rectitude too that’s loftier.
And if sloth counts as character,
he’s always been the more agile one.
I mean when I was 15 and he 42,
he could run up to a bus,
that had begun to crawl out
of the terminal
and get my huffing self a seat.
He’s 84 now.
Walks a little slower,
one foot dragging a tad bit,
like it forgot something.
But still, very much the same man.
The same quiet strength.
Still smiles quietly like
he knows something
I don’t.
Growing up, I used to watch
how he handled things —
not with big speeches
or drama,
I mean that too, when needed,
but mostly with a nod,
a straight look,
and words that didn’t wear
any blushers or concealers.
No sugarcoating.
No niceties — to sound nice, you know.
He just said what he had to.
And that, somehow,
made people listen.
Families, especially fathers,
stand up for you.
He did too.
What’s funny is
sometimes we didn’t even know
we needed standing up for — or against what.
Get Chandra S.’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
He did all the usual stuff
that I now find painful
to do on my own —
paying bills,
getting broken things fixed,
answering silly questions,
sitting through our nonsense,
and not complain.
Even once.
Or maybe once.
He isn’t superhuman.
No one is or needs to be.
Sometimes I think
why is it always so easy
to fall asleep in his home.
I guess the mind knows —
he will take care.
He’s been with my mother
all these decades.
no side stories,
no drift.
just… loyal.
And not because someone asked him to be.
Just because that’s who he is.
I was a scared child.
But this is not about me.
So, let’s just know
I was intimidated easily.
By situations. And by peers.
I remember once,
neighbouring boys came calling
with some score to settle.
I was seven or eight.
Hid under my bed. Covering up.
When I asked dad for protection.
he said,
“Come out. Fight. Don’t hole up.”
and walked away.
That line stuck.
Still does.
Though, if I’m honest,
I did run, try to escape
more than once.
That’s the thing.
I wanted to be like him.
so badly.
Still do.
But I don’t think I made it.
Not quite.
Too emotional.
Too self-doubting.
Too… me.
And now I sit here
in a Mumbai hotel room,
trying to write this,
and he’s likely solving sudoku
or gridlers
1,011 miles away
exercising his evenhanded mind
like a calm, unruffled wave.
I wonder if he knows
what he’s been to me.
Probably not.
He’s not the type
to ask those questions.
or expect answers.
But as Mike and the Mechanics
play back in the mind,
I go ahead
and write this little note
in his living years.
If he reads this —
I hope he sees himself
in these lines.
I hope he knows
I tried.
Still am.
