My father

Being a father seems to me a difficult task. And I don't mean the 'providing' part. It is not always clear how a child's experiences influence its behavior or personality. Maybe the prospect scares me even more because I live in the shadow of my own father, or his memories since he died in 1997.

For the most part, my father 'observed' me. It was unlike him to give me instructions. Mostly, he did what he could to create the right environment without appearing harsh to the pleasure-loving creature that a child is. Objects that provide entertainment but no learning had a difficult time finding their way into our home. Before classes started each year, we would sit down and put covers on textbooks. He did it like it was an art, finishing with writing my name on the front cover in a handwriting that would seem to have come from a printing press. He had won gold medals in Engineering for his Bachelors and Masters degrees. The standards were set as high as they could be, but never was a word uttered about any expectation of meeting them. I had once asked while watching Ivan Lendl play tennis with the usual tense expression on his face - is it important to play to win or to play happily? The answer came immediately - It is better to play happily. I didn't think that was necessarily right at that time, but now I see how personal ambition has brutalized humanity throughout history. Gentle hints came my way on rare occasions. He once asked me about the TV - Can't you overcome its attraction? I gave him a sheepish shrug.

Few words were exchanged between us. For the most part, he would seem aloof, and I might have been tempted to nurture that belief, but that was as far from the truth as it could be. Let me tell you about one incident that took place when I was eleven. In school I had a clean record - I never caused any trouble. Therefore, on the Friday when my teacher gave me a dressing down for my poor handwriting, and wrote a complaint in my school diary, my heart altogether sank. This was a new experience for me. How would I show my face at home? I had to get it signed by my father by Monday, but the weekend passed and I could not muster the courage to tell him. Monday morning came, and I woke up unhappily. Surprise, surprise, my father was sitting with my diary at the edge of the bed. He smiled and I babbled something. He asked me to write - I shall diligently try to improve - and then he signed it. To this day I don't know how he came to know. Maybe someone told him. Or maybe he just sensed it, but one cannot help wondering how attentive he must have been behind his facade of 'aloofness'. I guess fatherhood is another department where the standards are sky high for me, not that I am planning on having kids in near future, but still.