Bougainvillea Blooms, Kafka, and Bread Crumbs
A letter to papa
I honestly thought I’d start working on this piece earlier, but as I’ve proven to myself time and again, I really am lazy when it comes to writing. There had been several ideas in my head to build this into a good story; however, I believe they all would’ve fallen short of doing justice to the man for whom this is meant. So the following narrative is going to be a minimalistic one written more with honesty than flair — partly due to the reason I’ve mentioned in the previous line, and partly because there is a time constraint at play (more on this towards the end).
The earliest memory I can recall of papa consists of primary school, the classic yellow school bus, a crow, and some crumbs of bread. But before I delve into that, I’d like to highlight that the fact that I refer to my father as papa has a few connotations to my family background. I was brought up in a middle-class Muslim household in New Delhi, where the “middle-path” was the status quo. So we weren’t conservative enough for me to refer to him as ‘abbu’ (Urdu for father), nor was it a modern enough household for me to call him ‘dad’. Therefore, ‘papa’ was the ideal term as per our socioeconomic status. It may well be that this status has changed over the decades, but our roots never will.
Papa used to wait for the school bus with me on bright summer days, way back in 1999. Like every other four-year-old, I was a sprightly kid who hated school; but the mornings weren’t too bad at all. Mum used to make a tiny, delicious sandwich for me, which consisted of butter and pepper and had the edges cut off; while papa brushed my hair after I’d put on the unimposing school uniform. Once I’d finished the sandwich, papa and I would head to the bus stop, which was less than five minutes away from the small flat that served as our abode. There was a garden covered with bougainvillea hedges on our way, which dazzled brilliantly beneath the beaming blue sky. On fortunate days, you could spot squirrels running around on the sunlit grass; oblivious to the world outside.
The chopped-off edges of bread served as breakfast for a friendly crow. He visited papa and me every morning, as far as I can remember. We used to put the crumbs on the steel fence behind the bus stop, balancing them delicately; and he’d fly just close enough to pick these up and take them to a farther part of the fence for consumption. I’m sure we had a name for this particular crow but my memory fails me on that — if I had been as pompous then as I sometimes am now, I’d have called him Kafka.
Those mornings were the reason I didn’t put up too much of a fuss in getting up. I’m sure the days felt long and monotonous otherwise, but in retrospect, it seems like they flew by rather quickly (such is the nature of time, I suppose). At the turn of the century my younger brother was born, which meant that I had to become a bit more independent due to my parents’ newfound responsibilities. The years passed like trains, and waking up to the same routine started to create a feeling of despondency. The sandwich that I had so loved felt insipid, Kafka no longer showed up, and I became heedless to the early morning shenanigans of squirrels.
July 24, 2018. The last day of business school. It was a bright, clear day; quite atypical of the Dublin weather. Waiting at the bus stop for the 114 to Blackrock, I felt prepared and cheerful; quite atypical of myself. All that was required to be done on the day was a presentation of the consulting project report that my group had completed. I wasn’t fazed by this task at all, since I’d received a job offer just the week before; which had been the primary goal of my attending B-school. As I’d mentioned earlier — the middle-class mentality remains rooted throughout one’s life. The only thing that bothered me at that moment was the suit I was wearing: to my surprise, the day actually felt hot.
Knowing that this would be the last time that I’d enter the classroom as a masters student, I couldn’t help but feel wistful; and my thoughts drifted to the rough days of the past year. Living away from my family for the first time in the biting cold of the Irish winter wasn’t an easy task. Added to that was the constant anxiety of not knowing where I’d end up once college was over; and whether I’d be able to financially support myself in a city deemed to be the most expensive in the Eurozone.
It was during those times that I began to comprehend how difficult life must’ve been for papa. Notwithstanding the aforementioned issues, I’d had good friends as flatmates, access to several resources and networks for building my career, and my parents’ economic reserves…this hadn’t been the case for him. He’d grown up in a forgotten town in rural India with barely enough money to spend on basic needs; let alone wants.
Studying at a local college there didn’t bring you many opportunities. The disdain towards Muslims was prevalent in societal structures. Skipping dinner to afford three meals the coming day happened frequently. Writing to your elder brother — who was trying to make ends meet in the city — for funds to get by until the end of the month turned into a frustratingly regular occurrence.
To become a senior government official in the nation’s capital despite these obstacles is indubitably inspirational, for lack of a better word. Marrying the person you love by defying the endemic social and religious norms of your rustic, regressive Indian town is a rather remarkable accomplishment as well. But I suppose what I’m most grateful for is his ability to unconditionally provide for his son’s seemingly incomprehensible, wanton aspirations; something he never had the privilege to experience in his youth.
A nitwit son who doesn’t even have the courage to wish him a happy birthday over the phone but instead writes an article on a website he may never visit.
My melancholic train of thoughts was derailed by the clamorous cawing of a crow that had perched itself on top of the stone wall fence bordering the bus stop. The sunlight illuminated the bougainvillea flowers beside the bird, who now gazed at me as if in expectation of bread crumbs. Unfortunately, I had none; so all I could do was gaze back with a wry smile, reminiscing my days with Kafka. The familiar yellow Dublin Bus arrived not long after — a couple of minutes late, as usual. I boarded it and went straight to the frontmost left seat on the upper deck. I proceeded to peer out the window to look for the crow, but it had already flown away.
The bougainvillea blooms swayed in the light morning breeze as the yellow bus drove forward towards my school.