A Grudge( which I no longer hold)

A grudge I cannot do away with....
( I have done away with it .. thanks to my twin friend who led me into blogging)

I do not know if I love my father. (I know now for sure that I love him more than any man I've known)When I write this, pain throbs somewhere.. it must be the sobs of the love un-given. Opening this space is the hardest for me.. viewing my Achan from my mind that hasn’t grown much over a eight year old probably. The image of a father who did not raise to my dreams, yet in whose prodigy I am secretly proud of.. a blend of contradictions.. that’s me. I haven’t ventured to ever think of or explore my thoughts placed in this space. I am doing it now lest my thoughts will keep lacking clarity.

My Achan is an intellect, blessed with spontaneity of language and thoughts, extraordinary vocabulary and poetic skills. I am told that he had been the official translator for a world known orator, in his early twenties. He is a fantastic orator himself and a born writer too. He is an ex tempore by nature and is known for his rhythm, sharp humour and clarity of thought evident in his political speeches. He was a communist and I am one too. What a voice he had! Deep, manly and majestic.. How handsome was my Achan with his golden skin, big brilliant eyes, a broad radiant forehead, a thick black moustache covering his upper lip and slightly raised upwards at the ends. I fondly remember my Achan who reads newspapers in the mornings his plumpy fingers holding a burning cigarette and on Sundays at the easy chair writing in his crisp artistic neat hand, his fountain pen fat at its stomach and its greenish blue ink which he used to fill from a Brill Ink Bottle. His fair skin, the black mole on his left shoulder, beautiful black hair on his butter- smooth body.. I cannot but admit that I loved my Achan.

But I have more of my father in my mind which camouflages all of these finer pictures. (deleted from the blog and from my mind)

I have not heard anyone speaking bad about my father, on the contrary I have heard praises too. At home no one else holds any ill feel against him. He is nearing his seventy now. The deep love and dependency my parents have between them, I am well aware of. My siblings are proud of him. But I am somehow like this. Maybe the un-given love is more glaring than the given one. And the position my father has in my mind is not anywhere near my dreams. My father had put to earth the dream castles a daughter had built about her father. I remain hurt.. my unaccomplished dreams about my father, the heights he did not conquer, the position and fame he did not earn, the books he did not author, the literary speeches he did not deliver, the great lawyer he did not become, the responsible father he never was, all these are unhealed wounds yet.. but I ve treasured them all in a chamber of my heart.. there lies my anger, my agitation, my despise, my protest, my complaints, my hatred and my love for my father. I’ve locked this chamber too.. with a lock of detachment and indifference.

Post Script: I love my father inspite of all II have built up against him. It is my fault and entirely mine.