My Father Once Tossed Me Across the Coffee Table Like a Magazine

Stories from my grandmother

I think of a blanket, warm and cosy, to tuck around me, to cover my eyes when I am scared, to go to sleep peacefully- that was my Grandma. A blanket. She was initially my mother, for many years, before gradually becoming my Grandmother. I grew up learning from her- kindness and hospitality. And when I was gone, finding my path into a career, a spiritual destination, love, I missed her. I almost forgot her. Then, she became my Grandma. Occasional hospitality and warmth that I receive when I visit her on special occasions, like a festival, or death, or a marriage.

I don’t hear stories anymore, instead, I hear ranting, complaints and gossips. I yearn to listen to old family stories, of my Grandfather when he absconded from the army, and a lookout notice was issued on his name, of my Uncle when he was caught red-handed reading erotic books, of the two dogs our family had owned -Leila and Leika, and of my father when he tossed me across the coffee table when I was a toddler!

What I am right now, was what my father used to be when he was just married and had me for a toddler. A short-tempered and troubled young man, who was always impatient and irritated. I don’t remember much of what had happened in our family before I was in the 7th grade or something. All of those memories seem to be tangled into a giant woollen ball, which’s ends I can’t find, and which’s path I can’t trace.

I heard stories from my Grandma, and that’s how I made sense of most of the things. From her stories I got to know that the two years my father was away was not for his job, but because of his differences with my mother. In one of her story sessions, she spilt out something I know she never intended to tell me, but then she accidentally did, which would create a difference in how I looked at my father.

I was a toddler, sleeping on my father’s arms, without knowing anything about life, or about creating memories, but just an organism with an overwhelming want for certain things, and an overwhelming urge to cry for certain other things.

How much angry is angry enough to throw a baby into the air without any intention to catch? What is a similar circumstance so that we can put this activity into perspective? I could not think of any. I tried, but I could not decide- beating up your girlfriend, torturing an animal, lying with a malicious intent to hurt someone, slapping someone, punching someone in the face? I even asked myself, “Should I even be angry at my father for this, for something he did which has not hurt me, something I do not remember, or rather I could not have possibly remembered, because I was just a toddler?”

I also thought about an alternative possibility. Because the only reason I was not hurt that day was that my Grandfather was sitting across the coffee table, and he was able to catch me as soon my father tossed me across the table. It was an argument between them that triggered my father, an argument that was irritating enough for my father to not think of the consequences of a baby falling from a five feet height. What if? What if my Grandfather’s reflexes weren’t good enough? What if I had fallen and hit my head? What if the fall had inflicted on me permanent damage? What if I had not survived?

To this day, I have not confronted my father on this issue. I had stayed mad at him for months, without him even knowing about it. But I am not angry anymore. I have since forgiven him. He probably would have not even thought about this incident in his life more than a few times, and it makes sense. Because I think I know what he would have felt at that moment- instant remorse.

I have been in situations where I was a lesser person- someone who made the situation worse, someone who overreacted, someone who lost it and said something that was not meant. I have been in such situations with my close friends, my ex-girlfriend, my mother, my father, a shopkeeper, my grandmother, the helpdesk person, my colleagues, and so many other people.

And because I am that same person that my father was a few decades back, and because I have been in situations where I was the lesser person, I know that it always hurts to be the lesser person.

I did not want to hurt my father, because I understand that he did not mean any harm. It was momentary, a glitch in mind. If I could explain everything that I have ever said, that had offended someone, that would make me a really bad person. The fact that I cannot explain it, and the fact that I know that I regret it, is kind of a good thing. It is hope.

My father has not hurt me ever so bad, that it has inflicted a wound in my mind, that it resided in my memory. He did not hurt me once that I can remember. It was just a story my Grandmother told me, and I am glad that she told me. Because now I know that I and my father have a lot in common.