Dear Baba,

You might never get to read this, and that’s okay. But if one day, this letter finds its way to you, then these are some of the words I would like to share.

Baba, you’ve been the best father ever when I was a child. You made time for your children. Every summer break, for every single evening, you would take us to the same park. We ran and played for hours, yet you never got tired of it. You got down to your knees and even played with us. You pushed us high on the swings, where I felt an adrenaline rush in my body, wanting to touch the infinite sky. You held me when I practised swinging on the monkey bars. At that moment, I felt like I could achieve anything.

Baba, you were so kind to us. Even though expressing love and physical affection didn’t come naturally to you, you did it in your own way. And I felt it. In our childhood home, whenever we celebrated our birthdays, you always came from work to blow out the candles alongside us. After cutting the cake and taking a few bites, you’d go back to work.

Baba, you were attentive to our needs. You went above and beyond to make things easy for us, whether it was picking us up and dropping us off at our friend’s house or helping us with our school projects. My fondest memory is from fourth grade, when you helped me build a sand timer. We stayed at your workplace using all your tools until we completed my project. The homemade timer wasn’t perfect, but it didn’t matter because what mattered was the time we had spent together. 

Baba, you held my hand tightly, and I felt the safest with you by my side,  but only for so long. Slowly, as I grew older, I felt your grip loosen. I searched for your hand, but I couldn’t find it anymore. Maybe my path toward independence meant I could handle life alone. The reality was, I couldn’t. 

When summer break rolled around, dread and anxiety began taking over me. You worked late hours every single day. I barely saw you. I also began seeking my comfort outside of the house with friends.

There were times in my teens when we had moments of connection. Whenever I went out with family and friends, I would come back eager to tell you all the details of my outings. I spoke nonstop with excitement. You listened attentively and took an interest. We even shared many laughs. But these moments were only temporary and came to an end quickly as they began.

Baba, over time, we grew more distant. Our conversations became dry, and our interactions basic. We were drifting apart, yet remained in the hindsight of each other. I searched and reached for your hands many times, only to find mine empty. Baba, you were my safe home even into early adulthood, yet I never found it ever since I got too big for you to push me from the swings.

Over the years, I healed. When I healed, my heart became light like a feather. My heart grew softer towards you. I understood you better. The past didn’t sting as much anymore because just as I grew alongside you, so did you. 

Baba, when I got married and left my home, I saw a new side of you. You missed me and my presence around you. Yet you never expressed it. You came to visit me at my place and sat on my mustard coloured chair near the window. You sat quietly and awkwardly. We spoke about the weather and work, then you would leave.

Whenever I visited you at home, you asked me to stay longer. I heard sadness in your voice when I announced it was time for me to leave. I would leave with a heavy heart and cry in the car before driving off. I missed you, too, but my hand no longer needed to be held, Baba, because I learned to walk on my own.

Baba, when my first son was born, I saw an old kind of love reignite in your eyes. The kind of love that makes your heart laugh. The Baba of my childhood was back, but this time for my children.

Baba, you are an amazing grandfather to my kids. You love them with your whole heart. You give them your time and even get down to their level to play with them. You come visit when you’re missing them and take them out to the park as you once did with us. You will always be my children’s, Baba Jaan.

Baba, I really see you now. I see how you love and how you grieve. I see how it is extremely difficult for you to feel pain, and so you cope by avoiding it altogether. So much so that your routine and work become your escape from the reality of your feelings. 

Baba, I see you. I see your wrinkled face. I see the curled tips of your fingers from working with your hands for over three decades. I see paint on your hands permanently tattooed on your body from all those years of work. Beyond it, I see your youthful heart, full of energy as it has always been. 

Baba, I highly respect you for all your sacrifices and for carrying your family on your shoulders. You still haven’t stopped, even when those same shoulders are slowly beginning to hunch. Thank you for everything. Thank you for being my Baba. 

May God give you health and peace in your heart. May He preserve you and raise your ranks among the righteous in Paradise. May God give your heart enough strength to make space for all your feelings and to accept them fully.

With love, your eldest daughter.