My dad passed away only when I was eleven years old. That was in 1981. Since then, all these years I have been brought up by my mom and my aunty together. And I consider both of them as my mothers; my real mom is my biological mother who gave birth to me physically, and my aunty, my psychological mother who undertook the hard ways of a mother by feeding, nursing, caring for , protecting and sending me to school. If I have to say it straight from my heart, then, I will definitely say that my aunty plays a greater role than my mother does, in moulding me upto what I am today. Reflecting speculatively from deep down inside my heart about the things that my aunty did and has been doing for me, I always wonder myself asking, "Who is a mother?" And I hope you are an intelligent reader. And to me, the meaning becomes clearer and clearer as days pass by why the whole world calls that fragile WOMAN of Kolkotta, who never married, who never gave birth to a child, "MOTHER TERESA". I firmly believe the word "MOTHER" has not been misused here.

From 1981 onwards, the presence of a towering personality of a father has been absent from my life. What hurts me even more is that this absence is permanent and irreversible. Even with all the stretch of my imagination and memory, I still cannot remember any soft and loving gesture my father had ever shown to me when he was in this world. Only one incident with him and me do I still remember. And that is a bad remembrance because that hurts me and provokes my anger rather than love. He scolded and spanked me over the loss of a Chinese fountain pen - Wing Sung. So, I grew up with the doubt whether or not he loved me, his son. If he loved me, why did he scold me, why did he spank me just for a trivial mistake of losing a cheap Chinese fountain pen? I always find it difficult to swallow in my logical mind. Consequently and unmindfully, a hatred for him grew in me. Every year, on his death anniversary, I never shed a tear for him nor said even a single prayer for his soul. I said to myself, "Why should I do that for a man who hated me?" It went on for more than twenty years.

Recently, while searching for a lost sports magazine among the pile of books in our home library, I came across an old worn-out, moth eaten diary of way back to 1972. In the owner's name was written my father's name. I curiously just skimmed through those dusty pages. A particular page caught my attention. The page of 23rd February. And on that was written the following: "My son completes the second year of his existence on this earth today. This occasion goes without any ceremony and celebration because he is sick, down with fever. God grant my son a long and prosperous life, please save him and take my life in his place". I looked at it intensely for some moments. And for the fist time in my life, I broke down and wept. "Dad, forgive me. I am sorry".


By: Siddarth