My Pitaji^[1] was a serious person. He was also a quiet person. And by all measures, he was a family man.

He was practical, and strict. He used to wake up at dawn, never later than 5:30. He would go out for his walk, and fetch milk and a hindi newspaper on his way back. On return, he would need his morning tea ready, which he would have while skimming the newspaper. He would then get ready for work, have breakfast and head on for the factory. On his way to the train station, he would stop by at the temple near our home. After work, he would get groceries from the list Amma^[1] would have handed him over in the morning.

When he returned home from the factory, my sister and I had our books already open. He would change and sit with us while Amma made dinner. We would have dinner no later than 7:30. After which, we were supposed to help Amma clean up while he ironed his clothes and polished his shoes for the next day. He listened to the evening news, and then old songs that followed the news on the radio while doing this. He was very particular about ironing his clothes himself. Everyone was to be in bed by 9.

If you asked me at the time, the only thing stricter than his clockwork schedule, were the rules for our studies. So if it was time to study, it was time to study, no matter what world cup game was on, or what mela was set up in the neighbourhood. School was not to be skipped unless doctor prescribed bedrest. No other reason was valid enough.

My sister and I had our fun playing, and did our bit of shouting, screaming, singing, fighting and running around. But not when Pitaji was home. At least there was no shouting or loud singing. No, we were scared proper. I can't describe what it was exactly that made us, but we were scared. He didn't even beat us, ever, except once when I pushed my sister down a jhula^[1] and she needed 4 stitches. But still, a stare was enough for the both of us to be in line.

I was not a fan of the teachers at school and so I was also not a fan of never being able to skip school. I used to be very angry with him sometimes. If he didn't finish his school, what right did he have to force it on us?

It is not that he intentionally didn't finish his schooling. He could not. We don't know the whole story as it almost never came up throughout the years. We do know that he didn't have his parents growing up. His mother had passed away during childbirth along with his would be sister, when he was just a baby. His father was very loving and tried his best to be both a mother and a father, but that too didn't last long, and his father succumbed to typhoid when he was 6. On the day of the funeral, his maternal uncle, Raju mama^[1] took him to his home as he was the only remaining close family left for my father.

My mother once told us that Mamiji, Raju mama's wife, was not very good to him growing up. This was hard to comprehend at the time for us as Mamiji was the most loving grandmother we could have imagined. She used to let us play whatever as long as we wanted, tell us tales and feed us non-stop whenever we went to their house in gaon^[1].

It was always a lot of fun there, specially because of the jhula they had on the old mango tree.

But we never spent a night at Mamaji's house. Instead we would almost always stay at Pitaji's friend, Balbir uncle's house. I could never understand why. After all, this was the only family Pitaji had. Mamiji would ask Amma or us kids to stay the night, every single time; sometimes with her words, other times with her eyes. She never asked Pitaji. My mother would simply reply "you know how it is..." most times and would simply smile at others.

Before my mother passed away, when I was 20 or something, I asked Amma to tell me about this story once. It was Mamiji's funeral that Pitaji had gone to attend in gaon and the occasion seemed appropriate.

I learned that Mamaji used to run a garage and had a couple of difficult years when my father was around 12. Most of his workers left when salaries could not be paid for many months. That meant Pitaji had to skip school that year and help him out to keep the shop running and pay off the loan.

Raju mama's own kids, aged 7, 8 and 10, stayed in school.

The next year financial problems continued, as did the skipping of school. After that, everyone in his class had already moved ahead. Moreover, Pitaji now had friends outside of school. It never made sense to go back. He had learned the craft, and was already getting pocket-money on the side. There were no salaries until he turned 17.

Raju mama was not a shining example of a good boss though. On good days, he was pretty cheerful, but he would easily and frequently lose temper on the smallest of things. Being the constant and youngest employee, Pitaji was often at the receiving end of things.

When Pitaji was 21, and was already running the garage more or less by himself, a friend of Mamaji suggested marriage for him. He knew of a girl whose parents were looking for a groom.

"She comes from a good family, knows how to cook and sew, what more is there to ask for", is what Mamiji had said about Amma when Pitaji showed some hesitation. Mamiji was keen to get another pair of hands in the house to help out on chores with. Moreover, there was the promise of a dowry that the bride would be bringing. And so, three months later, just after sawan^[1] of 1974, my parents were married. My mom was 16 at the time.

Things took a different turn though, and soon after marriage, there was a huge scuffle when Pitaji witnessed the treatment of Amma firsthand one day while returning from workshop. Mean things were said about his parents and there were mentions of the favours and debt Pitaji owed to Mama and Mamiji. In the end, Mamiji had in her anger, asked the couple to leave the house; his house, of 15 years that night.

They moved to Bombay the next day and lodged up in a Chawl^[1] with the help of an acquaintance. We continued to live there until I was 17.

He did continue to go back to visit them twice a year for as long as both Raju mama and Mamiji were alive. We used to go together when I was little. But at some point, over the years, maybe after our middle school, it was mostly just him visiting them alone.

We didn't travel much while growing up. But that wasn't something we paid much attention to or miss. Not many other families in the chawl travelled either. Pitaji would still take us to fun places within the city. We would hop on to a bus or the bombay local and go to the zoo, or some mela, but mostly Mahim beach or Chowpatty on weekends. Some of my best memories playing are from the beach. He never played with us though. Honestly, we couldn't imagine something like that too. Amma played with us.

If we saw him coming towards the water, that meant it was time to go home.

I could probably count the number of times I saw my father smiling throughout my life. Once I cought Amma and him talking about something when I was 10.

Some of the times I saw him smile were with his colleagues/friends from the factory. They used to come at home at Diwali or some other occassion. Most of them were heavy-machine technician, like him, at a cotton-mill. He worked there for 27 years until the factory introduced modern machines with automation and which required fewer but academically trained engineers. He was respectfully asked to take early retirement along with some of his colleagues.

Some of his friends went to work for other mills on reduced salaries, but my sister and I insisted he didn't need to. Both of us were financially stable already at this point.

A year after his retirement, my daughter Geet was born. I rarely saw my father visibly emotional, but on that day when he held her for the first time, he couldn't hold back his tears.

With Geet in our midst, things changed; he changed. Gradually, and then completely, it was as if someone or something had lifted a weight off of him.

As she grew up, they become inseparable. He would be the first person she would look for after waking up. He would be who she wanted to go out with for a stroll, when she wanted to play with her toys and needed an assistant, when she wanted to tell stories to someone. He would entertain all her demands, be the most attentive soul she could find and the most interested player she would need. There were no rules for her. In fact, he would sometimes break his own schedule if it meant fulfilling one of her demands.

He would tell her stories too, from his childhood. Some of which we heard portions of while passing by them, almost none of which we ever knew about before. Stories about his friends growing up, about his school, about the memories of his father. It sounded as if he was talking about a completely different person.

His voice, which somehow was locked somewhere earlier, opened up too. And now was free, alive. Sometimes even carefree.

I came home from office one day to hear him laughing in the living room while playing with Geet. I remember the day clearly. The last of the sunlight was coming in through the window, turning everything a deep orange. They were drawing something on the colouring book. The cat sat in the corner soaking in the sunlight. Geet was saying something while she drew shapes in the book, and he was laughing. A carefree, hearty laugh. I stood in the doorway, quiet, my bag in hand, and watched. I didn't want to disturb.

Pitaji passed away a few days ago at the age of 80. He would finally meet his parents again after more than 72 years.