I lost my father when I was one year old. To me, the word ‘abbu’ belonged on the lips of every other kid. Abbu, baba and dad were characters in movies that I watched and books that I read or people my friends mentioned with familial affection. Growing up, I used to create scenes in my head from stories maa would tell me of abbu and eventually abbu felt like the pleasant remnants of a half-remembered dream. My childhood moved forward without him, and eventually, I stopped wondering what it would be like to have a father.
It wasn’t until I became a parent myself and watched my own children curl up in the arms of their baba, fall asleep on his chest, and visibly light up when he walked through the door at the end of a work day that I began to understand what a father truly is. I saw the way their tiny hands reached for him, the way they looked at him with absolute trust, and the way he responded with patience and love. I watched him teach them how to kick a football, help fix a bike, chase them around the house and comfort them when they were hurt. In those quiet reflective moments I often felt time folding in on itself as I stood in the presence of a love I had never known but somehow remembered.
Motherhood was immediate for me, stemming from the profound biological experience of pregnancy, childbirth and the intimate closeness that followed; it was almost instinctual. In contrast, for my husband, fatherhood arrived quietly. I watched him step into it gently and without ceremony; it happened gradually in the way he learned to hold our newborn with careful hands, the way he stayed up at night so I could catch some sleep, the way he spoke to our baby in tones I had never heard before. I watched him become a father in the patient way he responded to cries, in the softness of his gaze, in the unspoken emotions that filled his face with every little milestone. It was a bond not merely born of biology, but forged through a hundred tiny acts of love.
Watching my husband become a father made me realise that fatherhood isn’t about grand gestures. I began to understand that his love spoke in silence and showed itself in quiet, consistent ways: it is in the long work hours, the bills that are paid without mention, the silent fixes around the house; it is in the waiting on the sidelines on tournament days with anxious eyes and a warm smile, the way he stands quietly in parent teacher meetings, listening more and speaking less, it is in the umbrella held over our children even before the first raindrops fall, it is in the way his calloused hands hold the bicycle seat just a little bit longer than necessary. Watching him grow into this role felt like witnessing something sacred like an oak tree taking root: firm, practical and dependable. And as our children grow, they stumble and learn with dreams and challenges, and my husband, their baba, remains in the background, holding the ground steady with a love that asks for nothing in return.
A father’s love is like the tall, silent and reassuring shadow he casts. Fathers set the stage so mothers can shine in their role, so that the home feels warm and routines run smoothly, so the little crises of everyday life are handled before they reach anyone else. He is the quiet constant as life rushes by in vibrant, unpredictable currents. This quiet strength is not always confined to one form or face, it can come in many shapes and names because fatherhood isn’t defined solely by blood, but by the steadfast presence of a father figure who cares deeply enough to show up day after day. For some of us, it is an uncle who steps into that role in the absence of a father; for others, it might be a grandfather, a brother or a teacher.
In many ways, fatherhood teaches us about time itself. It is a quiet study of patience as a father fits himself into a role that is as complex as it is rewarding. There is an artistry to fatherhood that is quiet and powerful, it is a legacy of presence, an omnipresent reminder that someone believed in you, loved you more than you will ever know, and carried you on his shoulders so you could touch the sky.
As I reflect on the word abbu now, I realise it is no longer just a word from stories or movies but a living, breathing presence in my home. Through my children, through their laughter and their tears, through their calls of baba! I have come to know the true meaning of fatherhood: complex, beautiful, perfectly imperfect, and endlessly precious. And so, to every abbu, baba, dad, and father figure out there: your love is seen, even when you are quiet; your strength is felt, even when you are tired; and your presence is cherished, even when you feel like you are taken for granted.