The Letter Vinod Will Never Read

DEC 10, 2019

Dear Vinod,

You will never read this letter. You cannot read or write. You have told me this yourself, plainly and without a trace of embarrassment, the same way you tell me the traffic near the station is bad. And yet, of all the people I have written to, you are the one I most wish could read the words addressed to him. Maybe one day, one of your children, the ones you work so hard to educate, will read it out to you. I would like that very much.

I don’t know if most fathers-to-be feel this way, but these days I feel a deep sense of helplessness. Being a control freak, I have been doing everything I can: educating myself, working on my health, mental and physical, making sure Janvi has the right food and supplements at the right time, and taking care of all the chores in the house. But I am not the one bearing my child, so my control cannot be exerted on the closest aspects of this process. When I told some of my closest friends the news, way too early in the gestation, they all wanted to know how I had reacted. I guess they all know how long I have waited for this phase of my life. I have been trying to understand why I did not react in an effusive way, and I think it is that exact feeling of helplessness that is holding me back from a full-throttle celebration dance. I am all in, but I first want to know I am holding the best hand. Sadly, there is no cheating at this table. So right now, I am cautiously optimistic about the pending fulfilment of a longing that I know will give my life a new and deep purpose. It has been a while since I have let myself feel so much, for Janvi and for my life, and I find myself getting moved to tears on the oddest of occasions.

You were one of the first people I told, before most of my family. Did you ever wonder why?

Ever since I found out I am going to be a father, I have been having bad dreams about all the bad things that can happen to my child. One night, I dreamt that we got into a car accident that you could have avoided. Janvi and the baby were fine. But the thing that stuck with me long after I woke up was your sad, tearful face, apologetically understanding from my reaction that Janvi was pregnant. I decided to tell you that very same day. You drive her to work every morning. I needed you to know what you were carrying.

I will be honest with you now, the way you have always been honest with me. I know you have not always felt fully accepted in our home. Part of that is the impossibly high standard your predecessor set, which we have all come to expect. And part of it, yes, is your own set of ways. You can be a little stubborn and a little uncompromising, especially about the simple good things in your life that you refuse to give up: a good meal, and your indulgence of a drink after a long day of work. But here is what I see. I see a man who cannot read or write and still drives better than most drivers on the road today. I see a man who works hard to provide for his family and to educate all his kids, while carrying his entire extended family on his shoulders. I have never heard you talk profanely or raise your hand at anyone. You are a religious man, well-respected amongst your peers in the building. And you do all of this with a decent moral code and a quiet daily struggle that most people never see. Let me tell you a secret: I have real trouble understanding people who do all the right things without much difficulty. Everyone needs to let their demons play, as long as they make sure their angels finally win. Yours win, Vinod. Every day.

Still, when I finally told you in the car on the way back from the gym, your reaction surprised me. You were genuinely happy for me, and you understood why I had told you. You immediately said: “Thank you for telling me. I will make sure I drive even more carefully. I will bring whatever you need, whenever you need it. You can call me late at night, and even on Sundays. You can depend on me. I will not let Bhabhi lift anything. I think you will be a great father, and I am so happy to hear the news.”

My heart filled up and I had to look away to wipe my tear-filled eyes. Here I was, drowning in my helplessness, and there you were, offering me the one thing I actually needed: the simple assurance that someone dependable was watching over what I could not.

And then, as I was getting out of the car, you asked me if you could take the next Monday off. You had to drop your kid to boarding school after the Diwali holidays.

I smiled about that for days. In the same breath as your promise to me, you were quietly being a father yourself, showing up the way you always do for your own child’s future. Maybe that is why I told you first. Long before my child arrives, you have been showing me what the job actually looks like. It is not about control or holding the best hand. It is about driving carefully and showing up every day. Sometimes, it is about asking for Monday off.

Thank you, Vinod. Drive safely, because you carry precious cargo.

Rumit