As I peacefully slumbered, I found myself in a dream filled with praise and recognition.
Amidst the dream's tranquility, a voice whispered, "You have done a brilliant job, Vijay. You have been rewarded..."
In the background, a peculiar chant emerged, "Vvvvvvviiii……ViiiiiiiiiiiJaaaaaaaayyyyyy………… ViiiiiiiiiiiJaaaaaaaayyyyy.- what!!"
Suddenly, I was jolted awake by a sharp exclamation. "ViiiiiiiiiiiJaaaaaaaay … ."
Annoyed by the disruption, I grumbled and threw off my blanket. "What's going on now?" I thought. My wife's persistent yelling was a constant source of annoyance, even in my dreams. Irritated, I got out of bed.
"ViiiiiiiiiiiJaaaaaaaay …." The call persisted.
Sighing heavily, I responded, "Coming, Vathsala. What's the matter? Why are you shouting like this?"
I rushed downstairs, bewildered by the commotion. To my surprise, I found my wife, Vathsala, and our 7-year-old daughter, Achala, seated on the couch, both seemingly content, watching TV. Everything appeared normal, which only added to my confusion. What was happening? Was I still in a dream?
"Vathsala…" I began.
"Yeah, Vijay?" She replied calmly.
"You called me, and you yelled," I pointed out.
"Yes, you're right," she acknowledged.
"Is everything okay here? Why did you scream like that?" I inquired, puzzled.
"It's because it's almost 8 a.m. now," she explained.
I remained perplexed by her explanation. Was this some sort of prank? And even if it was, was it the right time for it? I had an important 9 a.m. meeting at the office.
"So?" I responded. "It's going to be 8 am, yes. So what?"
"Vijay, don't tell me you've forgotten," Vathsala chided.
I struggled to grasp the significance of the date. Was it her birthday? No, that had passed back in February. Our daughter's birthday? We'd celebrated that just last month. That left only one possibility: our anniversary.
"Hey Vathsala, how could I forget our anniversary…" I began.
But before I could finish, Vathsala interrupted with disbelief, "What? Anniversary?"
Realization dawned on me; it wasn't our anniversary. My mind raced, desperately trying to recall the importance of the date. My daughter's birthday? No, that was already celebrated. I was stumped.
"Vathsala, please tell me," I pleaded, feigning amnesia.
"Vijay, you don't remember at all?" she asked.
I played my role, shaking my head to indicate my memory lapse.
"Vijay, as part of the annual day celebrations, today is 'Daddy's Day' at Achala's school. I've been telling you for the past three weeks. Don't tell me you forgot. You already promised to go with her to her school," Vathsala explained.
I couldn't believe that I'd agreed to something like this. "Vathsala, did I really agree to this?"
"Yes, you did," she affirmed. "It starts at 8:30 am and ends at 1 pm."
Panic set in as I realized the time. It was already 9 a.m., and I had a critical meeting. How could I possibly attend both?
"Vathsala, couldn't you have reminded me yesterday?" I attempted to shift the blame.
"Oh, I didn't remind you? Great. I didn't call your office or remind you in the evening or before bedtime," she retorted sarcastically.
I decided to surrender. "Vathsala, I'm sorry, but I genuinely don't remember. This cough medicine I'm taking, it's affecting my memory. What's today?"
But Vathsala remained unconvinced by my excuse. "Vijay, you don't remember at all?"
I kept up my act, feigning amnesia.
"Vijay, please tell me," I pleaded pitifully.
"Vijay, today is 'Daddy's Day' in Achala's school," Vathsala reiterated. "You already promised to go with her."
Feeling trapped, I reluctantly agreed to attend, but with a time constraint. I had to salvage my important meeting.
"Do you know the school's name and the way there, or should I guide you?" Vathsala asked, irritation evident in her voice as she left the living room.
I rushed to get ready and called my manager, concocting an excuse about a traffic jam and postponing the meeting to 10 a.m. I then accompanied Achala to her school.
Entering her school, I realized it was my first time inside. The campus had a vast playground and a small park with children playing all around. Stalls were set up, and fathers were bustling with excitement. I felt a tap on my hand.
"Are you Achala's daddy?" a curly-haired child asked, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.
I confirmed, "Yes, I am her dad."
The child introduced me to others. Brimming with enthusiasm, Achala listed her friends' names, and we exchanged greetings. I couldn't help but smile at her zest.
"Uncle, Achchu told us you have a lot of work, and you wouldn't come today. You don't have work, Uncle?" a boy named Zakir inquired.
Zakir's words struck a chord, and I felt a pang of guilt. "No, Zakir, I don't have work today," I admitted.
As the school's games began, I started to feel anxious. The first activity involved fathers answering questions about their children. It suddenly hit me—I knew very little about Achala. I hesitated and suggested to Achala that we wait for the next game.
But she surprised me by pulling out a small piece of paper from her pocket and handing it to me. Perplexed, I unfolded it and read her handwritten notes. She had prepared it days ago, anticipating the game. It contained details about herself, things I had no idea
about. My heart sank, realizing how little I knew about my own daughter.
"Achchu," I stammered, "we should play this game, right now."
We participated, and although I answered most of the questions based on the notes Achala had given me, I felt like a fraud. She was called up on stage, and her responses confirmed my information. We achieved the second-highest score in the game, but my victory felt hollow.
Achala looked overjoyed, showing her prize, a toy guitar, to Zakir. I caressed her hair, struck by her kindness in preparing those notes for me. A lump formed in my throat, and my heart felt heavy. I realized how much of her life had passed by without my active involvement.
My phone rang, and I saw that it was my manager calling. It was already 10 a.m. I glanced at Achala, who had become visibly crestfallen.
"Daddy, do you have to leave now?" she asked quietly.
I checked the time; my heart ached. I looked around at the other fathers enjoying the day with their children, recalling the moments I had longed for as a child with my own father. His support, presence, and undivided attention had meant the world to me.
"Daddy, I'm not going anywhere. We're spending the whole day together," I assured her.
Achala's eyes lit up with joy. I called my manager, citing a high fever as an excuse, and postponed the meeting to the next day. Today, my daughter needed me more than anything else. With a lighter heart, I scooped Achala into my arms and swung her around, prompting her laughter to fill the air.
As the day went on, I realized that life's true meaning lay in these precious moments with our loved ones. We often become so engrossed in our work that we forget to cherish the relationships that matter most. This unexpected "Daddy's Day" taught me a valuable lesson about the importance of being present for our loved ones and the richness that family brings to our lives.
Original edit and rewritten.
(English correction by Gen AI 😃)
