So my father died when I was young,
not so young that I don’t remember him, but young enough that it’s made a
difference to my whole life. Before that my parents were divorced and in the
80/90’s when international travel wasn’t so common place I would see him once
every two years. In fact, when he died I hadn’t seen him for 4 years; my
brother and sister, older and at the time traveling backwards and forwards from
Pakistan were much luckier, having visited him a few months previously.
I remember the phone call when it
came, it was my aunt from Lahore, she spoke to my brother and I remember the
colour leeching out of his face and he only said two words ‘Daddy’s dead’ –
there wasn’t any preamble or preparation – the truth was as stark as that. It
was a Saturday I was home from school. My aunt still called my mother Bhabhi (sister in law) even though my
parents had been divorced for 10 years; my mother started crying and arranging
the practicalities of sending my brother back to bury my father, reassuring my
aunt he’d be there as soon as humanly possible, to not bury my father till his
son arrived.
Forgotten, I walked up to my bedroom
hid under the duvet and cried for hours, days, maybe it was years. At the time
I cried for him – daddy – who died alone because I left him. I was the one of
my siblings who was much more attached to our father than our mother – I lived
with him at his house and merely visited my mother, but when my mother left
Pakistan with my step-father I had gone with her. Didn’t matter I was only
small – all I knew was that even at the time in my tiny head leaving him had
seemed wrong. I had planned ALWAYS, from the age of 7, to do my A ‘Levels and
go back to him. But that never happened, so every year since 1993 on the 23rd
of January I cry for myself; for all that I lost that one Saturday.
I never saw my father through the
eyes of an adult. Maybe if I had I wouldn’t have this daddy-shaped hole in my
soul. He didn’t survive to that age when one day in early adulthood we realise
our parents are flawed human beings and not perfect, that though they may do
their best it’s not always the right thing. Only my mother has that
distinction. My father remains that big, incredible man who used to carry me
around to his business meetings, to his film office, to oversee his cinemas, I
was constantly with him. He even took me to India when I must’ve been about 2;
I have vague memories of shapes and colours of walking around the Taj Mahal
with him.
My father owned Mehfil Cinema in Lahore and I spent more time there as a 3/4 year
old than I did even in school. I used to go to school to sleep!! Which earned
me the distinction of being the only child ever (probably) to fail
kindergarten! But I was a queen amongst my peers – my father would give me 100
Rs. a day spending money in a time when that was a poor man’s salary. I had an
account with every popcorn, ice cream/sweet stall in and outside his cinema – I
used to walk around with my own entourage of poor kids from the local area,
feeding them sweets, having daddy settle the accounts! I have no memories of my
mother from that time; my father dominates them, the smell of brylcreem still
makes me weep.
I remember when I had moved to London
and the first time my father came to visit, I was just home from school and my
brother told me there’s someone outside to meet me. I walked out the front door
and my father stepped out of the car. It was like that first breath you take
after being suffocated.
My two favourite memories of my
father’s trips to London are going to see the Tom Hanks film “Big” with him and
my brother, where daddy and I sat together and my brother sat behind us,
interjecting now and again. Leaning between us and whispering. And the time when I had got my sister to wax a
part of my leg as a lark when she was doing her own waxing – I was so impressed
by the results that when went to see daddy where he was staying, I pulled up my
skirt and asked, “Daddy, see doesn’t my leg look sexy? It looks sexy doesn’t it?”
I still remember him laughing and hugging me close and saying, “Yes, very
sexy!” I was 8.
I am not an envious person by nature,
thank God. But I envy people who have fathers who love them. It’s like someone
always has your back no matter what. I haven’t felt safe since the day my
father died. I think mother’s make us feel loved – and boy do I feel loved, but
it’s our father’s that make us feel safe – against the big bad world, like
someone is there fighting our battles with us. It’s hard to fight on your own. Sometimes
I’ll see my brother hug one of his sons a certain way, or smile at one of them
in a particular manner and I’m hit by a flash of memory and a pain so acute
it’s almost physical.
Being fatherless is hard. Being
motherless would probably be harder – so I am luckier than many but not as
lucky as some.
Like Philip Larkin says,
“They f@ck you up, your mum and dad,
They may not mean to, but they do.”
Even when they’re great and love us, they f@ck
us up, if we are lucky enough not to cry because of them, we’re doomed to cry
for them.
