When we were kids my father worked round the clock. He worked 2 shifts 6 days a week, coming home past mid-night and leaving the next day by 10:00 a.m. On Sundays he left as usual at 10 in the morning and got home by 4 p.m. He called it half day! Day in and day out he saw sick people. He wasn’t just their doctor, he was their healer. There was magic in his touch. His work was not just mentally taxing, it was also physically tiring. The commute to and from his chosen workplace was exhausting. Despite all odds, we have never heard him complain. In my whole life I have heard him raise his voice maybe twice or three times, that too never at me. Nothing could keep him away from his work and his people, not even his own health. At the end of these long weeks, he would happily make time for us. Sunday evenings meant outings to parks, beaches, circuses, magic shows or dinners. Sometimes he would make dinner at home. Had he not been a doctor, I’m sure he would have been a restaurateur. Sunday evenings also meant taking him to the market and pointing out something I would have earmarked earlier during the week. How ever silly or over-priced my demand may have been, he never said no.
He will always be my hero, and I will always be his little girl, his pride, his joy.