The mind is a funny thing. It plays strange tricks. Its’ been thirteen years since Dad died. The grief and sorrow went away with time. However any talk about him was always melancholic – sadness that he never knew four of his grandchildren, that he never saw his last son get married, that he never saw his daughter open her own office in the city, that he never visited our farm which would have delighted him, the list was endless.

But something happened last week and like a small leak, memories that were dammed up are slowly seeping out. I can’t figure what triggered it. Was it when I was chasing Jesse with a stick, a mock game that we often play? Or a mention of a game of cards that set me off?

I remember now, some shadowy, some crystal clear –

Dad chasing us on the terrace with a long stick, when we are playing in the hot sun instead of doing some boring stuff like learning grammar or slokas. The screams and squeals with which we dodged him running helter-skelter, knowing full-well that he would never hit us.

Dad, teaching us to play Literature and Ass, never ever Rummy though, in the long vacations that saw us idle and begging for amusement. We would sit in huge circle, very often some cousin or the other adding to the crowd.

Heavy rains outside, the wooden windows shuttered as we learnt to play Trade, enjoying hoarding the stiff cards that were fake money, with not much clue about what Parel or Marine drive or Chowpathy was. Dad making fun of mom’s Porulvilanga urundai which had turned a little hard and was testing all our teeth.

Accompanying him in my turn, to the city (we lived about 20 kms away from Madras) as he went to visit some business clients on Saturdays, sitting in the car in the hot sun, with warnings about never to open the door while he finished his work, waiting for the evening treat which was always in the Drive-in restaurant of Woodlands. Eating masala dosa or huge puffed up poories, waiting impatiently for the fruit salad with the red cherry sitting atop. And going home with a package of almond bars and lollipops and those tiny little candies called ‘arisi mittai’ for the ones at home.

Going on picnics to Mahabalipuram, screaming our hearts out as dad overtook our uncle in his staid car with the mothers and babies. And he would do it repeatedly as we begged him to, letting uncle go ahead and then zooming past him with us whooping with joy.

Dad preparing to go for a night show with mom and probably one of my older siblings. The younger ones were not allowed to go for night shows. All set to go when my older sister would stand with tears gathering at the end of her eyes and he would give in yet again and take her along.

- forcing us to have eggs which we got from a farm he took care off. Hating it and being forced to swallow the slimy stuff, waiting for him to step out before flinging out the unswallowed portion out of the window. The cotton tree there seemed to thrive on the stuff.

- attracting all the relatives who never failed to visit us and stay and sample my mom’s cooking. Dad funny and sarcastic and keeping everyone in a flood of laughter.

- encouraging us to read books, forcing us to learn to ride the cycle, taking us on long trips, he is there in all the stuff that childhood was made off. My memories flood me but in all that he is still the old man I saw at the end. I can’t see him as he was then, young and full of fun and life. Hey dad, miss you.