Pranab Mukherjee: Father, mentor, guide

My persistent grudge against my father had been his height. Were he taller, that might have added a few more inches to mine. It took me several years of mature reflection to realise that though this man is short in height, he stands tall in stature. In my own life if I could gain even a fraction of that height, it would be worth it. Till then, I will just have to manage with my stilettos.

Reportedly a very powerful man, my father doesn't have much scope of exercising it within his family. We are a fiercely democratic family with each member having equally strong and divergent views on everything under the sun. In fact, his political skill of generating consensus and managing a sometimes "unruly" House in Parliament probably developed literally on his home turf. One thing is for sure; he has been training in economy and budgeting on his children. It's extremely difficult to squeeze money out of him. I'm sure many mightier than me would agree on this. But honestly, I think it's a highly enjoyable interaction between me and my father, from my perspective at least, trying to coax some money out of him.

It would start with an outrageous demand on my part, and after a long process of cajoling, coaxing, threatening, bargaining and negotiation, we would arrive at a mutually agreeable sum, usually four to five per cent of the original demand (I've learnt to make my calculations). After it had been given, and pocketed, he would let out a pathetic sigh and declare in Bengali, "You are a chor, daku, shashtrapani"- a lethal combination of thief, robber and armed gangster".

These are his terms of endearment for me. When he is very loving, he might also call me a "monkey", but never "shona" or "puchu" which Bengali parents heap upon their children. There has always been a certain degree of formality between us, also certain unwritten rules and code of conduct to be maintained irrevocably within, and outside the family, the primary one being never to throw our weight around, or to expect anything out of my father's official position.

These lessons came not through any preaching or sermonising. (I think my parents learnt very early in my life that all lectures would fall on deaf ears.) These were conveyed in phases through various situations in my growing-up years. One experience was when I was in Class 12. I started performing a lot as a rising dancer, especially with my guruji's group. I hardly studied and my mother's nagging had no effect. A few months before the exam, my father told me very quietly that it's absolutely fine if I don't study, but if I don't do well in my exams, I shouldn't expect his help in getting into a good college. Incidentally, he was finance minister then as well. It pinched my ego and I decided to study hard and not take his help. A few months later, I was called for an interview to St Stephen's College. When the then principal, late Dr WS Rajpal, learnt who my father was, he said he was surprised that he hadn't received any phone call from my father's office. I told him my marks were good enough to grant me the interview. He asked me a few questions and dismissed me. Later, when I got my admission there, my father didn't say much, but I knew from his expression that he was proud.

I also learnt not to cross certain boundaries, as a child and as an adult. Whether asking permission for a late-night party or an out-of-turn promotion for a friend's father (or husband), the answer would be a curt "no". All the joviality would vanish, his face would turn red, and that was my cue for beating a hasty retreat. I can coax money out of him for an expensive sari, but his official persona is completely out of bounds. I hope all the people who heap me with requests to get things done read this. I tell them, and I reiterate, that he doesn't listen to me. And neither do I (listen to him). So it's a fair arrangement.

My father is a workaholic. Even at the age of 76, he works nearly 18 hours a day, 24x7. I don't remember him taking a holiday since the last 20 years, except for the annual retreat to our ancestral village for Durga Puja. But my growing-up days were better. Though there were very few holidays, occasionally we would have music and poetry reading sessions at home, strictly restricted to family and close friends, of which I have very fond memories. My mother would sing, while my father and some other friends would recite Bengali poems. He recites beautifully and has a huge stock of poems which he remembers by heart. Another of his lesser known traits is his knowledge of and taste for Bengali sweets (including those from Bangladesh). Given a chance, he would rattle off, in his prodigious manner, the speciality of each locality; the history, geography, physics and chemistry of each variety; and elaborate on finer nuances and differences, with the relish of a true connoisseur.

One of the few traits that I have inherited from my father is his love for reading. He is a voracious reader. But it causes a lot of conflict between us. Whenever I see a book that I want to read on his table, or stacked somewhere in his room, logic and economy tell me not to waste money on buying another copy, and I simply pick it up. And sometimes, to make more space in his room, I would periodically clear away a lot of books and put them on my bookshelves. So whenever he can't find a book, even if I haven't taken it, he will accuse me of "stealing" it. He loses a lot of books on his endless travels. Even when I try to explain that I took the books to keep them safe, he does not listen. Such is the reward for doing good work.

Talking about books, I would like to share an incident from my childhood. My father once caught me reading a Bengali magazine not exactly known for its high literary quality. He leafed through few pages and said: "Why are you reading this? It's bad literature," to which I answered, "How would I differentiate between good and bad if I don't read everything?" He saw my point and handed back the magazine. This is what I love most about my father. He never tried to impose his views on us. He let us make our choices, good or bad. He let us grow as independent individuals without burdening us with his expectations.

The most enduring image I have of my father is imaginary. In his childhood, he had to walk nearly ten kilometre every day to reach his school. There was a dry stream on the way, which would turn into a gushing torrent during the monsoon season. Whenever I close my eyes trying to visualise my father, I see this little boy standing by the roaring stream thinking about how to cross it.

He has crossed that and many other barricades in his life and walked a long way since then. As a father, his most valuable lesson to me has been on how to cross these hurdles by myself. He never tried to mollycoddle or build bridges for me, but has given me strength with his rock-solid silent presence to walk the path on my own. I will address the last few lines directly to my father because he will be extremely embarrassed (and turn red as a beetroot) if I ever say it to his face: "Thank you Baba, for being what you are; and for just letting me be what I am. Thank you very much."

(This article was first carried in India Today's Collectors' Edition in December 2012.)