A Father's Day tribute to a 'Man of Mystery'

Every Father’s Day, when social media floods with tearjerkers and perfectly posed throwbacks, I find myself revisiting a patchwork of odd, hilarious, and mildly traumatic childhood memories. My dad, who we lost when I was ten, is still a mystery to me.

He worked in the UAE, that much we know, stationed at the Al Dhafra Air Base. What exactly he did there remains unclear, mostly because we never thought to ask. Was he a maintenance technician? A strict airbase etiquette coach? Did he manage supplies? A man shrouded in just enough mystery to keep us guessing?

We’ll never know. We just wrote letters addressed to the UAE Air Force and hoped he’d reply, which, to his credit, he always did. He came home to Goa twice a year, dropped chocolates like care packages, corrected our singing pitch with military precision, and vanished back into the desert.

To my two older siblings, he was a domestic dictator — part parent, part terrifying enforcement agency. They practically dove under furniture when they heard his voice. I, on the other hand, being the youngest by a generous decade or so, was spared the wrath.

He was oddly lenient with me, probably too exhausted to parent after raising two terrorised teens. Or maybe he saw the future writer in me, especially since I began my literary journey by writing him dramatic letters (often with illustrations).

Admittedly, most began with “Bring me this” and “Bring me that,” so technically, I started out with creative blackmail. These masterpieces were addressed to the UAE, where I now live. Coincidence? Or fate having a cosmic chuckle?

Also, and this still blows my mind, he was a freedom fighter when Goa was under the Portuguese rule. Long before any of us were born, he was involved in ousting a colonial power… then ran our household like a disciplined micro-state.

Dad was full of contradictions. He was short-tempered but gifted, a multi-instrumentalist who could turn a spoon and a table into a jazz set, but couldn’t tolerate a single off-note. Unfortunately, I may have inherited the short temper and not the musical genius, life really knows how to deal the cards.

He was also wildly passionate about Konkani stage drama — he wrote plays, composed songs, and always cast himself in the comic role. The irony, of course, was that at home he was more fearsome than funny.

Once, he asked me to sing something and I, in peak childhood absurdity, chose the Indian National Anthem. He made me sing it in different pitches like I was auditioning for a patriotic medley in a ’70s Bollywood musical. I’m told the neighbours considered filing a noise complaint.

He believed ghosts weren’t real (thank you for my horror movie immunity), insisted on perfect table manners, and once explained “tit for tat” so convincingly that I actually slapped him back when he lightly smacked me for misbehaving. I stood there, proud and tiny, declaring, “You told me so!” Indian parenting logic could not compute.

My sister said he made meat curry while mum was out shopping. It was so salty it could’ve cured a fish, but nobody dared say a word. She even asked for seconds to avoid a diplomatic crisis. He went fishing, composed songs, and occasionally summoned my siblings for impromptu X-Factor-style voice tests.

They failed spectacularly. He’d conduct these in his room, the same room he rarely left, except to lecture them in the dead of night about the importance of tidiness. I’m told he inspected bedrooms like a hotel manager with a grudge.

He hid his drinks from his mother well into adulthood and danced a mean ballroom waltz. And despite all the tales of tyranny, his handwriting was beautiful — just like the memory of him, inked with comedy, mystery, and music.

So this Father’s Day, I raise a glass (or a pitchy song) to the man who taught me many things: discipline, imagination, and that when you explain “tit for tat” to a very literal-minded child, you might just get a taste of your own parenting.