The Writer Father :

I was the elder of the two sisters. Whenever I had the chance to contribute any article or poem to the school magazine, people appreciated my writings. Ma told me that from the time my sister was born, I took upon myself all the responsibilities of looking after her, raising her and helping her to take up her rightful place in the world. Naturally, I had very little time for writing or taking writing as a career.

My father was a school teacher. He was a kind hearted soul with a long-cherished dream of making it big someday as a writer. He taught English to the students of the higher classes and was one of the most popular teachers of our school.

Baba was a very friendly person but I could sense the drastic change in him when he let the writer take over and went on his writing mode. He would spend hours before the desktop, oblivious of the goings-on around him! And if anyone did so much as to call out his name, hell would break loose in the house!

Sometimes, he would share his story with us. He would read it out to us and look expectantly at our faces once he was done with the reading for the reactions. At such times, he would behave like a child. I always okayed them while my sister, while taking her time, would be more forthcoming with her feedback.

That day, he was back from school as usual. We had some snacks together as Ma had been down to Kolkata in connection with Didun's (Ma's Mom) sudden sickness. Baba talked to us for a while, changed into a T-shirt and trousers and sat down on the chair in front of the table with the desktop over it.

He got immersed in typing then while my sister and I addressed ourselves to some household chores. Baba had been writing for an hour or so when he started emitting some bizzare sounds followed by some utterances:

"God! Why am I always the one to be singled out? Now, all my efforts have ended in thick smoke. The computer got hung. Whatever I wrote got deleted within seconds! And foolish me! How did I ever forget to save the draft?...." and so on and so forth.

Sitting on the bed nearby, both my sister and I got tensed up. Baba behaving like that was a bad sign. No sooner had I thought like that when Baba got up and started pacing the room, his hands folded behind his back. He never spoke to us in such a situation. I looked up at him before casting a meaningful look at my sister's direction. Baba, by then, had stopped near the wall between the dressing mirror and the desktop table. He started striking his head against the wall. Slowly at first and harder and quicker gradually.

Sister and I exchanged a knowing glance before heading towards the door inorder to get out of the room fast. I thought that Baba would cool down gradually and everything was going to be well in God's universe again.

We went down and out to the nearby fenced park on the outskirts of the school campus and spent a long time talking about childhood. We spoke about Ma and missed her terribly. Sitting side by side on a wooden bench, we two watched the sun go down behind the mountains as the gentle breeze blowing across, caressed us under the crimson skies.

We were back home soon afterwards. As we climbed up the steps and stepped into the drawing room, everything was silent except the ticking wall clock. We quietly scampered across to our parents's bed room. Baba was still near the computer. He glanced at us with a blank look. I pulled my sister to the bed and climbed into it, trying to get up as quietly as possible. 

Baba was heard blabbering still, venting his frustration and angst at the world at first before targeting us. Having realised his ill-temper, we sisters held one another tightly in our arms - with a pleading look in our eyes and our eyes on Baba.

"And what to expect of these two no do-gooders? They are the clumsiest girls I have seen in my life. What was my fault to be punished with such useless daughters? Why didn't God bless me with a son? A dotting son like me? I must be a sinner to be their father……"

We sisters, scared beyond expression, just kept looking at the drama slowly unfolding before us. He got up from the chair all on a sudden and started pulling the bedsheet out with us sitting on it! We got terrified not knowing how to put an end to his wrath. We were also scared of being hurt badly.

I don't remember what brought him back to his senses again. As Ma wasn't home, I, still quaking in my boots, headed towards the kitchen after some time. We sat down to a quiet dinner of Ema datse and scrambled eggs that night, waiting for Baba to join us.

I mustered up enough courage to call out to him after a while : "Baba, won't you have dinner? The food is getting cold…"

Baba joined us soon - his eyes till bloodshot.

Despite the gloominess in the air hanging around us that night, hunger must have got the better of us as we devoured whatever was there on the plate.

"Puplu, get up. It's time to have a bath. You have school today, don't you remember?" It was Baba awakening me from a horrid nightmare the next day. He was back to being the best father of the world again. We learned that the deleted post was not deleted after all. Finally, he could email the story to World Pulse for publication on the previous night.

Both Anu, my sister, and I grew up watching two facets of our father. One, when he was in a jolly good mood - friendly, loving and caring - the Best Dad in the World. The other when he would sit down before the desktop to write an article, story or whatever. This dual personality of our father impacted our lives greatly. We started fearing him, being in constant awe of his absolute mood-swings.

I am a software engineer now but I can't forget those scary days. Inspite of being the English topper from my school and several requests from Baba to pursue for honours in English and take to writing seriously, I am happy not to have turned out a writer. I don't want my child to be in complete awe of his/her mother as s/he prepares for her/his rightful place in the world.