Balushahi - The Dad Connection

The day before yesterday, the office cafeteria served Balushahi during lunch. I was in between a heated debate with some colleagues when I bit into the Balushahi. As the flaky sweet crumbled between my teeth, I was suddenly transported to another time, another place. I suddenly had tears in my eyes and a strange pain in my heart. This little piece of sweet had managed to remind of him, my father.

Back in 1997-98, I lived in Choudwar, a little industrial settlement near the city of Cutack, with my father and a tyrannous caretaker who abused me. While the years spent in Choudwar, which eventually led to my father's death, were traumatic as hell, they're peppered with some of the fondest memories I have of my father.

He had been mostly unaware of the hardships I was being subjected to at the hands of the woman he'd hired to take care of me. But he sensed that she was strict in her approach and every other evening, he'd take a break from work and sneaked me out from the playground to spend some time with me alone. Both of us had a sweet tooth so he'd take me to a little sweet shop nearby and let me have whatever sweets I wanted to have. And I'd usually go for chena-poda, balushahi and lavanglata.

And then he'd drop me back at the gate of the colony and I'd walk back home. It was our little secret. I was barely eight at that time and my father and I never really had anything that could qualify as 'deep conversations' when we spent those evenings at the sweet shop. I don't even remember what we talked about now. I just remember how safe I felt with him. He was my hero. I guess he'd ask me about school and stuff. I can still picture him with that majestic mustache and those kind eyes.

My father and I had seen some tough times by then. And that showed in his eyes. But they'd glow when he saw how happy those sweets made me. I meant the world to him. But he didn't know what I was going through when wasn't at home. He was a tortured soul, but I didn't understand it at that time. It's really sad how I actually got to know my father better after his death, from the stories about him that my uncle told me.

Back then, my father was superman for me. There wasn't anything he couldn't do. He was, of course, human but I didn't see his weaknesses or his flaws back then. He was my only parent, my safe haven, the guy who fed me balushahi and lavanglata and bought me nice clothes and wanted to make me a doctor or an engineer when I grew up. It was a matter of pride for him, raising me the way he was doing, all by himself. And I was the apple of his eye.

He passed away nearly two decades ago. I had just turned ten years old when he breathed his last. I am almost as old today as he was when he had me and sometimes I wish he were here. Oh, what I wouldn't do to share a bite of that balushahi with my father today. But then, he'd be a human to me, growing old and eccentric with age and the hardships life poses as you grow. But instead, he died a legend at 41, with only a few gray hairs on his head and left behind such dear memories of who he was.

When my grandparents visited us, my father would cut fruits for the whole family after lunch, while telling us wild stories from his travels when in the Air Force. He was hilarious and would make us roll with laughter. His crazy anecdotes, his incredible strength, that contagious smile he always sported and his muscular arms, that's how I remember him now.

There definitely was more to him, things that made him mortal and ordinary, things I'd have seen if he were around when I grew up. But that didn't happen. He was gone and left behind grand memories of his amazing self, perceived through the eyes of a child, still preserved in my mind. I have seen three deaths in my family now and I'm on the uglier side of my twenties, but my father's memories are what make my childhood special. And I'm so thankful to that piece of balushahi that triggered those memories for me the day before yesterday.