Acha

My father is a peculiar man.

His chin is shaved. His clothes are folded neat. His shirts are ironed. His chai is strained and perfect. His hair is combed. His voice is assertive and gruff.

At times, I find him weird. He laughs at dumb things. He points out my unkept nails. He cautions me to lock the doors and windows. He grumbles and worries and mumbles. He reminds me to drive safe. I am my own man, I don’t need reminders; I tell him. He says to me, “Okay 👍”. I sigh.

And yet. His stubble grows. His hair thins and grays. His voice weakens, at times. His shirts are crumpled. My father is not peculiar then. I worry about him. At times, of course.

But he is strong. He rises again. He smiles at me. I smile at him back.

It is then I realize I am his blood. I laugh at dumb things. My nails are clipped. My windows are shut, my doors are locked. My helmet stays on my head. I am my own man. But, he is my old man.

My father is peculiar. But I am too.

“He is a man,

I take him for all, in all.

I shall not look upon his like again.”

• advaith