Fathers and daughters share a special bond. I had realised that long ago. I realised it all over again when I read Shishir Bhate's diary, This one's about Shivani. It made me wish my father would sometimes articulate his thoughts. Like Shishir does. My dad, you see, is like most men: shy of saying 'I love you', shy of complimenting, shy of letting his daughter know how much he cares. Let's start from the beginning. Mom tells me that when I was born my father gifted the nurse who brought him the news Rs 21. The incredulous nurse (in a marwari household, the arrival of a girl-child is not celebrated with enthusiasm) told him again and again, "It's a girl," just to make sure he understood. My father didn't mind. He was happy. And in many months he slept peacefully that night. I was named Nidhi because he thought I was the biggest treasure of his life. I hope I have justified that belief. Living in Calcutta, where load shedding was a major problem, my dad spent hours fanning his little baby. Among the first words that I uttered were, "Papa, hawa!" He returned home everyday at 5:30 pm from office, so as to help my mom feed me. It was a ritual. My dad would stand at one end of the terrace and my uncle at the other end. As I played 'catch-catch' with them, my mom, standing somewhere in the centre, would manage to feed me. There was a night for which my neighbours are still to forgive my parents. I cried all through, keeping them awake. Finally, I rolled off the bed. My poor exhausted parents slept through the chaos. They were forced to hire a maid who slept on the floor in the same room so that I would never fall down from the cot. And yes, they bore up with her intrusive presence for more than a year. The first time I handled my dad's razor, I managed to cut myself. I was imitating his morning routine and, well, to make a long story short, bled all the way to the hospital. My dad learnt his lesson from it. Never, ever, did he leave his razor around his daughter again. I also remember the time when my mother made my dad face the milkman, to tell him there was no money to pay his bill. I was very fond of milk and used to drink, according to my mom, some two litres a day. My dad has never forgiven my mother for that embarrassing day. And me, I wish I had videotaped the incident -- how I would have loved to watch my usually irrepressible father tongue-tied! Till I was three my parents fought over me. Even today my dad jokes about how my mother once told him after a huge fight that she had thrown me into a pool of water. My father was so paranoid that he agreed to do whatever my mother wanted. I was the instrument with which my mom used to wrap my dad around her little finger. First daughters, I think, are special... but only till the second one arrives. Things changed as I grew. My dad came for my admissions, some PTA meetings. He missed some sports days but was there for most cultural programmes. He was by then preoccupied with making money, so that his daughters never lacked anything. "The day my daughter speaks, there will be a phone in the house. The day she can walk, there will be a car in front of my house..." That was how he wanted it and things happened according to his plans. Unfortunately, as he went about the business of providing for his family, my dad slowly moved to the periphery of my life. My mother became the centre of my universe. By the time I was in my teens, my dad was travelling 350 days. Sometimes I wanted to shake him and remind him that he was not a tourist in our house. Our relationship survived that. The fact that dad never missed our birthdays helped. We still shared special interests: I understood cement and he my passion for getting into the advertising or marketing field. Adolescence was painful. More so because dad was never around. While the rebel in me had formed an equation with my mother, dad was nicknamed the 'NO' guy in the house. No talking to boys, no partying, no wearing short skirts... My dad had absolutely no difficulty saying 'No'. Somewhere along the way my dad had forgotten the word `Yes'. And no, I couldn't remind him of it. Going for an engineering degree was a subconscious way to prove a point to my gold medallist engineer father. But I had already started losing the battle. I flunked two papers in my first semester. I can now understand the despair my parents went through. It was the first time somebody was failing in my house. It was a tough time. My dad switched loyalties. Suddenly, his second daughter became his favourite. She shared his passion for structures and cement as she studied civil engineering and topped the university. Over the next four years, my dad and I fought whenever he was home. Over everything possible: my miniskirts, my writing, my friends, my college results, my habit of getting up late... We barely spoke. To me, he was just someone who financed my life. My relation with him seemed to end there. I felt that my world had come to an end when I moved to Bombay, to stay with my dad. My mother and sister were back home in Pune. I cried the first night away, feeling homesick. My father didn't even seem to notice. But things changed. Not overnight, though. My dad cried that night, the night I cried myself to sleep dreadfully homesick and completely exhausted. But he didn't tell me a word. He complained to my mother about how he had not brought up his daughter to earn a few thousand rupees. He told her I should quit working. And he kept repeating that every time I had a bad day at work or missed my friends back home. Now I feel my dad is always there. Like a rock. To support me in everything I want. If I want to be picked up from work late at night, I have to only telephone him. If I want a couple of thousands every now and then, I have to only ask him. He has refused a lucrative career move to Delhi. He doesn't want to leave me alone. He wakes me up every morning with a glass of juice. He has learnt to live with my pile of Mills & Boons novels, which I know for a fact irritates the life out of him. The day I broke up with the man I thought I would marry was the day my dad passed with flying colours. He didn't say a word, didn't ask a question. Just enfolded me in his arms and let me cry. He calls me everyday at office to find out whether I have had my lunch. He makes sure that he kisses me everyday before I leave for work. He still doesn't tell me he loves me. But then, I don't think he needs to. I say it often enough for both of us. Senior Staff Writer Nidhi Taparia is an emotional creature. Tell us what you think of this diary
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