I hate my Father

The man on the Enfield pushed Avinash forcefully. He stumbled a few steps before falling down.

“Mind your own business. Don’t mess with an MLA’s son.”

Swearing by his mother and mad as a bull, Avinash got up and punched him hard in the face.

“Bastard! How dare you cast your evil eye on my friend?”

Eyes watering, the MLA’s son touched his nose gingerly and looked at his fingers. His face flushed at the
sight of his red fingertips. He got off the bike and jabbed his hand at Avinash’s face. The University
athlete deftly warded it off and shoved his knee into the former’s groin.

“Wait till I let the police loose after you. Who do you think I am?”, the man bellowed, ducked down in
pain with his hands between his legs.

“Please, let’s go”. The girl pulled at Avinash’s sleeve, forcibly dragging him away from the scene.

Lying in his bed that night, Avinash half-expected a blue jeep to pull up at his door anytime and
constables asking for him. But thoughts of the police were not what kept him awake all night.

Varsha had blurted out everything to Amma who in turn had updated Appa over lunch, amid sniffles and
sobs. The latter had listened in silence and washed his hands after dinner.

Avinash looked at the closed door expectantly now and then. When would his father come in and ask
him about the incident? What father would remain unmoved for his son’s safety? Didn’t he feel any
responsibility or even plain curiosity to enquire about what happened, let alone lecture his son on the
ways of the world like other fathers did?

As a child, Avinash always got mad when Appa answered in monosyllables to his rambling questions.
After his 12th exams however, he was thankful that his father didn’t interfere with his choice of college
or course, unlike his mother who pestered him about everything. But somewhere down the line as he
grew older and moved to college, it tugged at his heart strings that his father couldn’t care less about his
son’s life. Amma’s words rang out every time he thought of his father. Avaru ashte. He is like that.

His father’s world revolved around his office, 9 o’clock news, books and M S Subbalakshmi. Neither
material possessions nor emotions moved him. The only clue to his personality Avinash had stumbled
upon once, was on his office wall. A printed A4 poster saying “Do. Don’t talk about doing.”

Mid-term exams were round the corner. For the past week, Avinash had skipped his athletics training
and sat poring over the fat textbooks. Though he usually managed to end up in the Top 3 in the class,
scoring well in Molecular Biology this time was imperative. Because the final exam was all practical and
no theory.

He had sat up all night cramming the most expected questions and finally gone to bed at 4. At 6, the
chirping birds sang non-stop for a minute on his phone, but could not wake up Avinash. His mother
finally noticed at 7 that her son had not called out for coffee and breakfast. She hurried to his room only
to see Avinash tucked under 3 blankets, shivering and moaning.

“Ayyo, what happened to you? Your skin is burning”, she cried.

Just then Avinash’s phone erupted in song and ‘Varun’ flashed on it.

“Le magane, pick me up at 8.30. My bike’s out of fuel.”

Though on better days she would have harangued Varun for an hour about his language, today
Savitridevi fitfully described Avinash’s condition to him and pleaded him to help.

Depositing his friend and mother at the nearest hospital, Varun left for the exam. He returned at 2,
having finished early.

“Doctor said Malaria. He will take at least a week to recover. I called up his father also.” It was beyond
his ability to console Aunty, so Varun turned to Avinash.

“What luck dude! This had to happen today.”

With a morose look on his face, Avinash spoke groggily.

“I’ll have to repeat the year. Curse those damn mosquitoes.”

An awkward silence reigned for a minute. Hesitantly Varun spoke, more to console his friend than out of
any conviction.

“Maybe if your father talked to Pandian sir, he would… maybe …reconsider…”

“My father?!”

Avinash’s tone told his friend not to pursue the topic further.

The day after Avinash returned from the hospital, his father was back from his trip. A cursory “How are
you feeling?” was replied with a cheerless “Fine”. There was no point in expecting anything. But
accepting the truth was not easy.

The hard feelings were soon forgotten, helped by the fact that the kind Pandian sir had agreed for a
retest, considering several questions were out of syllabus.

Life went on until one morning, when Avinash returned from his customary 6 km run sweaty and
hungry. He showered and dressed in his new University team jersey and jeans. Usually, the distinct
aroma of Cothas coffee pulled him to the table where hot breakfast lay waiting. But not today.

“Amma?” Irritation creeped into his voice.

He looked into the kitchen and was greeted with emptiness. He rarely ventured into his parent’s
bedroom, but this qualified as an emergency. The door was open. He peeped in and saw a person
sleeping. Not his mother.

Just then Savitridevi burst into the drawing room with the neighbours in tow.

“Ayyo Avi. Why do you always leave your phone at home?”

Details spewed out in her panic-stricken voice.

“Innilla”, pronounced the neighbour stoically, taking one look at the man on the bed.

No college today, was all Avinash could think as he sat cross-legged and head bent, beside his weeping
mother, unable to look at the person now covered in a white blanket on the mat. He did not know what
to feel.

In an hour, the small house on Bilekallu Street was swarming with people. From the bike mechanic to
the pan shop owner, colleagues to neighbours, distant relatives and even Avinash’s friends had turned
up in droves. The men patted Avinash on the back while the women took turns weeping with his
mother.

“Very generous man. He always let me keep the change.”

“His silence will bite us in the office, sir. We would all be blabbering away, but Engineer sir would keep
working.”

Of course, everyone spoke good of the dead, thought Avinash. Another ritual.

He did not notice the tall bespectacled man in a white tucked shirt pushing his way through the crowd,
until the latter came and sat down beside him. Pandian sir was the last man he had expected here.

“I know Avinash that you did not think highly of your father. But I have to tell you something now. When
you were down with Malaria last month, he called me up several times and begged me to let you sit for
the exam again. He wouldn’t take no for an answer. Since I couldn’t be seen obliging one student, I held
a retest for everyone. Your father made me promise that I would never reveal it to you.”

Varun could see the emotions fighting it out on his friend’s face. The blank face was now covered in
doubt. But it was time to get rid of his own burden and plant it on this bewildered, forlorn boy.

“Le, You remember that day when that sullemaga teased Varsha and you beat him up. He could have
easily got you behind bars and even intended to. Your father came to me in the evening and asked me
to take him to that pig’s house so he could apologise. That nayimaga even took his gold bracelet in
exchange for keeping his mouth shut. Your father made me swear not to tell you ever.”

A sound of whiplash reverberated in Avinash’s mind. He looked closely at the empty right hand of the
corpse. His eyes burned.

An hour later, dressed in nothing but a white panche and a sacred thread, he walked around his father’s
pyre in a daze. He was acutely conscious of the humongous crowd that had turned up at the
crematorium.

I hate my father. He was never there for me. Not today. So I burnt him to ashes.

Avinash fell to the ground with a thud. For a moment, conversations broke and the air stilled before
people started running toward him.