Baba

Like any other normal household, we were taught to address our parents as Baba and Maa. Our school hours were late. From Std. 1, it was 8.30 a.m. to 3.30 p.m. We had many activities in school other than study hours. Even as a child, I had leadership qualities, and mostly I was chosen as the 'class monitor'.

I had many friends, and more because I used to have the authority to take charge of the class when the teacher was late or absent. During tiffin time, we had a lot to say about our parents, siblings, and many more.

Dad was extremely fond of me. Even if I had asked for the moon, perhaps he would have gone sailing up the sky to bring the lunar wonder for me. I used to mostly talk about my father with my friends. I was then barely 7 years old, and I had a nice blue pencil with me. Then I told my friends about this blue pencil that Dad bought for me and the never-ending talks about how today Dad wore a blue shirt to the office etc. Dad’s favorite color was ‘blue’. After I reached home, Dad would take me out for a walk to buy me my favorite chocolates, and the next morning these I shared with my friends. My sister was too small, and my younger brother was born a year later. I was the cynosure of all eyes, my Maa, especially Dad, and amongst relatives and friends.

One day, when from Baba it became Dad, I don’t know. I started addressing Baba as Dad, my younger sister followed me and later after a year when my brother was born, he too learned to call as ‘Dad’.

Today I feel that ‘Baba’ is such a sweet word. But with all the sweetness, love, and respect I have for my father, I overlook and find solace and understand that it has nothing to do with ‘Baba or Dad’.

Some say maman, Papa, mata pita. How does it matter? It’s the relationship with parents, father, and the feelings, ‘My Dad my Hero.’