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“Gun?” Dad chuckled. “What would you do with a gun?”
“I’ll learn to shoot so when I grow up, I can protect you,” I declared.
“Protect me?” Dad smiled.
“Yes, Maa says you’re always surrounded by enemies.”
Dad laughed and planted a kiss on my forehead, followed by a playful tousle of my hair.
“Alright, I’ll get you a toy gun next time. But you have to promise me you’ll study well and avoid getting into fights with your friends or anyone else. Stay out of trouble, Vishnu. That’s all I want from you. Can you do that for me?”
“Yes, Dad,” I responded loudly, making the mistake Maa had warned me about.
“Vishnu,” Mom immediately intervened, pulling me down. “What have I told you about calling him ‘Sir’?”
“But—”
“It’s okay, Vandita,” Dad interjected. “My driver Mohan is aware of this. He can always call me ‘Dad’ in front of Mohan.”
“Just in front of Mohan?” I questioned with disappointment. “Why can’t I call you ‘Dad’ in front of everyone? Before my friends, teachers?”
“No, you can’t do that,” Maa asserted firmly.
This time, Dad didn’t correct her or intervene. That day, I realised something. Whatever the nature of my relationship with my father, it wasn’t open enough for him to fully embrace me in his life. And it troubled me.
Five years passed, during which my father’s political career soared to new heights. However, my life remained unchanged. I was a twelve-year-old boy still yearning for my father’s presence. He visited me every few months, but our meetings always occurred at secluded locations and were restricted by time. I never had the privilege of going out with him as his son or proudly proclaiming him as my father. My friends still had no idea who my father was; a few even called him names that stung. I could endure almost anything, but I couldn’t tolerate anyone speaking ill of my father, whose identity remained a mystery to them. Such comments often led to physical confrontations with the boys, whether at school or in our neighbourhood.
My mother realised that this was taking a toll on my childhood and was subsequently affecting her own mental well-being. Dad grew concerned about her health when my maternal grandmother informed him of the situation. Shortly after, my mother was diagnosed with brain cancer and was hospitalised. Her condition deteriorated rapidly and eventually reached its final stages. The fact that Dad couldn’t openly visit her in the hospital infuriated me. I would argue with my grandmother about it, but she always tried to soothe my frustration and anger by explaining that he had his reasons. I still vividly remember the day I visited my mother in the hospital for the last time. Despite having difficulty breathing, the doctors permitted her to speak to me that day. She held my hand throughout our conversation.
“Vishnu, there’s so much I wanted to give you, my son, but I couldn’t,” she began.
“Maa,” I reassured her, squeezing her hand, “you’ve given me so much.”
“No, I haven’t. When you were born, I promised myself that I would provide you with the love of both a mother and a father. But no matter how hard I tried, I know you still long for Pratap’s love.”
“He loves me,” I insisted, genuinely believing it. “Dad loves me, Maa. He just can’t express it openly.”
“Yes,” she swallowed hard, her voice barely audible. “He loves you very much. And we both will always love you. But promise me, Vishnu, you’ll never turn your back on him. Even if he can’t publicly acknowledge you as his son before the world, you will always stand by him.”
She squeezed my hand tighter, her voice filled with emotion.
“His profession has earned him many enemies, people who don’t want him to succeed and who wish him ill. He knows how to protect himself, but one day, he will grow old. Promise me you’ll watch over him. Promise that you’ll always be there to protect him.”
“I will, Maa,” I replied through my tears. “I promise I will never leave Dad’s side. I will always protect him and his honour.”
She smiled at me, a look of relief on her face, but then her expression remained unchanged for quite some time. At first, I thought she was thrilled that I had made this promise to her. However, when her eyes didn’t blink for a long moment, I came to realise the truth. She had left me. She had left me forever.
I saw Dad again during her funeral, which was a very private affair. Only Dad, his driver Mohan, and I attended, with no outsiders allowed. Dad had most likely opted for a low-profile funeral due to his political prominence. Both Dad and I performed the final rites and lit her pyre together. That day, neither of us could find any words to speak. We remained silent throughout, staring at the smouldering embers of the fire, each of us lost in our own grief. Suddenly, Dad put his arm around my shoulder, drawing me close to him. It was then that the floodgates of my eyes burst open, and I couldn’t stop crying. In the following heartbeat, I found myself clinging to him, weeping without restraint, letting out all the pain of losing my anchor, my Maa.
That night, I overheard Dad talking to my grandmother. He expressed his desire for us to move to Dehradun, where he had arranged for my admission to a better school. My grandmother, worried about my tendency to get into physical fights with the boys here, couldn’t manage me alone, especially with my mother no longer with us. So, she agreed to Dad’s request to relocate to Dehradun on a permanent basis.
I was vehemently against the idea.
“Maa is gone, but I have you here. I won’t leave you alone. I promised Maa that I would protect you against your enemies.”
“Vishnu,” Dad took me into his embrace. “No more fighting. I know you want to be around me, but—”
“But what?” I interrupted angrily.
