The Forgotten Tiffin

I remember feeling utterly embarrassed when Daddy came to my college, standing outside my classroom with my forgotten tiffin in hand. For an eighteen-year-old, it was awkward beyond measure to have the teacher pause the lecture and ask, “Whose parent is that?” only to add, “Bhavna forgot her tiffin yet again!” But for Daddy, retired and always seeking purpose, it was the highlight of his day.

My absent-mindedness suddenly infused his day with excitement. At home, the usual chaos would ensue. Badi Mummy would mutter and fuss as she packed the tiffin in layers of plastic bags, knotting them tighter with each hurried movement. Daddy, equally flustered, would prepare to leave, and the inevitable debate would begin. Whose fault was it this time? Certainly not the poor girl’s, overworked at college! Maybe Badi Mummy packed the tiffin too late. Or perhaps she forgot to place it by my bag. Regardless, the day’s mission was clear: Daddy had to deliver the tiffin before noon.

My college was a mere 5 kilometers away, but the journey felt monumental. It required walking half a kilometer to the bus stop under the relentless Ahmedabad sun, navigating two bus transfers, and finally completing another short walk. On a good day, it took an hour. On most days, plagued by the unpredictable bus service of the 90s—scarce, overcrowded, and unpredictable—it took closer to two. Yet, Daddy never complained. It was what it was.

Daddy wasn’t just my father’s elder brother; he was the patriarch of our family and a larger-than-life figure. His laughter could fill a room, his smile could warm the coldest heart, and his appetite for good food and company was boundless. Everyone adored him. He had a way of making you feel seen and cherished, even when he was the cause of your teenage mortification.

When Daddy arrived at my college, tiffin in hand, he waited patiently until the first break. Standing outside the classroom, he’d wave and smile at anyone who met his gaze, completely unbothered by the curious stares. As soon as the break began, I’d rush to him, desperate to minimize the interaction. But Daddy had his own rhythm, and he wasn’t in a hurry.

He greeted my friends like they were his own. Priyamwada, he’d observe, looked undernourished and needed more home-cooked meals. Juhi, with her infectious laughter, was complimented on her charm. Jay and Jaladhi were reminded they hadn’t visited in too long. Bijal was advised to leave that dreadful hostel where she was obviously being neglected. Daddy’s warmth was magnetic, his chatter endless. It was only after multiple promises to eat on time that I’d manage to coax him out of the campus. Watching him leave, his long, sing-song strides radiating satisfaction, I couldn’t help but smile. Daddy had done his job, and he had done it well.

How does one find such happiness in the most mundane of tasks? It came effortlessly to Daddy. He taught us to live in the moment. He was easily content with life. He lived simply, and found great joy in whatever he accomplished. A swim, a walk, a drink, a meal, a phone call, a good night’s sleep… he made through ups and downs in life being the happiest man in the room.

And so, we will remember Daddy always as the man who lit up the room, whose eyes twinkled when he spotted you, who laughed the loudest, and just who made the most of the moment. The man who brought joy for lunch to a forgetful girl.

Bhavna

May 2021