I wonder what you write about fathers. They are the first man you encounter in your life after all. Do you write about their kindness or their flaws, in spite of which they tried their best for you even when they didn’t know how to make ends meet? Isn’t it also true that you look for your father in every man you meet who happens to be close to you – every friend, Roman (or in my case Kolkata bashi) and countryman? Now that the preamble is out of the way, let us talk of the many things my father was.
My father was a humble man who started influencing my life from the moment I was born (as I am sure all fathers do). I am told that my favorite pastime was nibbling his ear as a child and I recall writing about this for one of my parents’ anniversaries. He smelled of cigarettes and whiskey and loved to use Gillette Arctic Ice aftershave the most. He was also the man who poured me my first drink at the age of 16 at a party and told me not to tell my mother about the fact that he had helped me sell my soul in a mostly willing transaction to the Devil that is an OH Group compound.
I remember that when I fell sick as a child, my father would bring the music system to the room where I was resting (and fighting dragons in my head) and play a record for me. The records are still here, the man and the music system are not.
There are so many stories about my father that I could tell – the one where he made caramel custard for my mother to cheer her up in the hospital because she had had surgery; the time that he got me a GameBoy and planted the seed of video gaming in me which has led to me today enjoying a different sort of art form, and since we are on the subject of art, why not mention that he was a man who loved the Impressionist movement to bits. He came back from his first US trip (circa 2005) with a large bag full of prints by painters like Van Gogh, Manet and Paul Gauguin.
My father was the quintessential gentle giant. He took an interest in what my friends did and he would greet them briefly and he would talk to them if they had problems they wanted to share with them. Although it was rare to see him visit a theater, he did take me to see a few films, such as Spider Man 2 as a child (though he stayed outside and probably had a smoke) and he was a phenomenal Scrabble player.
e.e cummings wrote in a poem
“He sang his didn’t, he danced his did”
This line quoted above is what describes my father best. The world lost Atish Mitra too soon, and seeing as his birthday is tomorrow, I want to remember him with a song. Please scroll below for a vocal cover of James Blunt’s Monsters which I dedicate to a man who was less my parent and in all respects my best friend.
