I like to proclaim that I have never suffered from Writer’s Block. In fact, I have the opposite problem, too many ideas too little time. This could be because of a) I am a champion procrastinator and barely get around to writing, OR b) My father has perfected the art of being a writer’s sounding board.

I go to him often, with problems big and small but especially when I have painted myself into a writing corner. After stressing about an article for 3 days and not having written down a word, my dad told me I am being too precious about it – I need to relax a little and push it by one more day before starting to write. He offered to drop me to a party, at 12 am, and then pick me up when I was done.

This, #deargentlereader, is not a usual #desi dad.

I remember fretting over trying to capture a feeling that I was repeatedly failing at: when we visit our friends’ homes we always take our shoes off at the door. So, you’re left with a raggedy-ass, millennial ankle-sock hanging on for dear life, turning brown at the base, at homes of fellow young people who were not fastidious about floor cleaning. Those of us who pop one foot out of the blanket while sleeping know the feeling of needing to breathe with our feet. The sock forms a layer of separation between you and the floor and I don’t know which party is it protecting more.

I was feeling so suffocated in these homes, I should have had my own by now. Like my father’s, with cool marble floors on hot tropical afternoons and my bare feet run amok on these floors.

I wanted to equate the feeling of free naked feet with a sense of belonging and home. Father dear pips up: This is exactly like that #Gulzar song –

Duje ke ghar yun lagta hai

Mozey pehne baitha hun

Nange paon aangan mein

Kab baithunga kab ghar hoga

Deewaron ki chinta hoti hai

deewaron mein kab dar hoga

(translated) (I have sacrificed grammar for rhyme scheme, do not come for me)

In other homes I feel like

I am sitting with my socks on,

when will I be sat

in my own courtyard, bare-feet.

Worrying about walls, when will

I make my home in it.

For a writer, I am really struggling with putting more feelings into words. Like how did this guy steal this idea from my head, 40 years ago! How the hell will I ever write anything to match up to Gulzar! He’s done it so succinctly and gracefully, should I even bother pursuing this anymore or just give up and move on to other to-be-enlivened carcasses of ideas and why oh why did my father have to tell me!?!?

No one in my generation knows this song and I am multiple 30mins from being 40, so rest assured no one younger than me knows it either. I can’t find it on google, and maybe if it weren’t for my dad, I would have never known this song and written a version unaffected by this one; that I would’ve been proud of but now whatever I write will always be a lesser version of this.

But if it weren’t for my dad, would I have been a writer at all? I mean, my sister is not and she manages fine. Did he give me this illness, or was I predisposed to it. We’ll never know but for now I can rest knowing that Gulzar must also pop at least one foot out of the blanket while sleeping.

Happy Father’s Day my dear papa. I continue to inherit all your eccentricities – reading habits, arrogance, undying courage, steadiness of purpose, dust allergies and oratory.

…and watch out #Gulzar Sahab I am coming for you!