My father was a man of few words, but also a man who knew many words. He could read, write and speak Urdu, his English was impeccable, his Hindi fluent and he taught Chinese. His diction was flawless; all those tricky ‘k’, ‘kh’ ‘z’ and ‘gh’ sounds which are typical to Urdu, he uttered with ease and also managed to teach me some of them. His mind was a storehouse of idioms, jokes, sayings and one-liners, most of which he quoted straight-faced, whenever the occasion demanded.
He was also a man of many opinons. He could discuss politics, religion, ideologies, current affairs and sports at length. Some of his opinions could be quite tongue-in-cheek, but that never stopped him from voicing them. I remember once he wrote a letter to the editor of a popular newspaper, suggesting a remedy for the stray dog menace- round them up and export them to countries where dog-meat is a staple. Of course, that letter provoked a barrage of hostile responses, which he read with glee and then cut out and pasted in his scrap book. If he were around today and internet savvy, I’m sure he would be having a wonderful time poking fun at all the trolls that infest cyberspace.
Dad never threw anything away. He was an archivist by profession, before he became a lecturer. He believed in preserving everything. ‘Reduce, reuse and recycle’ was his mantra long before it became a popular text-book mantra. His study table drawers had a collection of containers with strange objects in them, some wrapped in used paper envelopes or oddly patterned plastic wrappers. Buttons, nuts, bolts, nails. pieces of wire, rolls of string, pens, coins, weird implements and tools- he had them all. What is more,he managed to find some sort of use for them too, blithely ignoring our shocked protests and pleas to ‘throw it away!!’
He had played almost every sport of his times (indoor and outdoor), and he was an enthusiastic player of tennis almost till he retired. He was a whiz at carrom, he taught me the rules of chess and he even explained to me in painstaking detail, the entire process of a five-day test match; starting from the players, to the first and second innings, interspersed with thumbnail sketches of the well-known cricketers of those days, just to illustrate his points.
I miss my father. I miss his wry humour, his kindness, his patience and his forbearance. I wish I had learnt more from him, asked him more questions, been more interested in what his life had been before I came into it. After all, my dad was an archivist; he worked to preserve historical documents, he also preserved memories. I wish I had tapped into more of them. My dad was an archivist, and he was also a keen photographer. I wish I had asked him more about his collection of old photographs. My dad was an archivist, he preserved so many scrolls, books and artefacts that he had brought back from his trip to China. I wish I had shown more interest in them other than that they existed.
My dad was an archivist. And I wish I had delved deeper into all his archives.
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