Daddy, Daddy Cool

“Dad, don’t worry about it, everything will be hunky dory”

“Hunky dory….maanga-tholi”, he replies, quoting a frequently used Malayalam slang which literally means ‘mango skin’, but figuratively means ‘what a load of bullcrap’.

I’m desperately trying to convince the paternal figure to sign off on my trip to Thailand next month. Of course, it’s not MY trip he needs to sign off, it’s my younger brother’s. A brief glance at his latest bank statement and the transfers of cash in a dominatingly one-way direction will reveal that that the younger sibling is still under the patronage of mon papa, and the parent has no intention of letting things slide that easy.

“Thailand has AIDS”, says the elder, using his trademark no-bullshit approach. He definitely puts the euphemism “Don’t beat around the bush” to good use. He’s beaten the bush so bad that the bush urgently needs IV fluids. Stat.

“Yes”, I reason, “but, that only matters if we do something that involves catching AIDS”. I lack the straight forwardness my dad exhibits and tend to lean towards a more diplomatic nature in handling things. How else will I phrase “No dad, we are not going to Pattaya to spend wild nights with hookers”.

Dad does not believe me.

Unfortunately, no one does. It isn’t the girls we’re after. It’s the beaches and food and the weekend away! Dad keeps grumbling but eventually agrees and in a moment of weakness, trusts what his son is telling him.

If there is something everyone has an opinion about, it’s about their own dad. You spend most of your adolescent life formulating hateful opinions about complexes the old man never had. By the time you hit your mid-20s, you start to appreciate those small idiosyncrasies for their uniqueness and flair.

My old man, for one, is always serious. If you chart a normal distribution curve of his seriousness versus time, his jovial side would occupy that corner under the right most bit of the curve which is reserved for percentage of people who eat Andhra-style Chilly chicken and don’t have to go to the loo in the next 2 hours. However, my fondest memories of Pops have always been those of when his fun side comes out and a smile plays across his face, with loud guffaws renting the air as he entertains a whole room of people with his anecdotes. The audience seems to collectively sense that the senior is having one of these rare moments and are unknowingly entranced by the words spilling from him. Each burst of laughter escaping from him resonates off everyone, as the room explodes in laughter; people unable to stop chuckling along. Dad always knows how to tell a story.

In my own way, I have started creating an ideology of what a dad should be doing. My son/daughter will hear the soothing tones of Pink Floyd’s ‘Coming Back to Life’, instead of ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ when they need their lullabies, and he/she will watch Oliver Stone’s “Doors”, when “Scooby Doo” seems more appropriate. He/she will be brought to appreciate what I have appreciated. My greatest fear at this point is that they will reject my gentle suggestions and prefer to set their iPods to the Black Eyed Peas when they scroll to the “Golden Oldies” folder.

Whatever said and done, Dads have got some ideas about us, and I have always tried to prove mine wrong. Maybe it’s time to cut the old guy some slack and behave a bit. Ok Appa, I’ll be good. For a bit.