No, it’s not your anniversary. Nor your birthday. Not even your wedding anniversary. All dates that I still remember…even though it’s over 25 years since you left us. But hey Dad anyway. You have such an unique way of reminding me of you at the funniest of times and in the strangest of ways.

Just this morning for instance, I woke up…slumbered up to the sink to wash my face and looked up into the mirror and I swear, I thought you were standing there in front of me. What brought about that apparition? It was a surprisingly sober Saturday night. And I had enjoyed a five hour sleep at a stretch after a while. My stomach was not too busy digesting my sins. And I hadn’t had any altercations with the kids (oh those remind me of you often, the way you and I used to argue sometimes). So what was it that triggered off that paternal thought process.

I took one more look at the mirror before shutting off the light and going about starting my day when it hit me. It was the banyaan.

There was a time when I was fourteen or fifteen when in the manner of all things South Indian, and perhaps Brahminical, I used to wear a banyaan…or vest as it was fashionably called…or should I say I was kind of forced to wear this strange ‘girdle’.

You perspire too much…a banyaan will help absorb the sweat…save your clothes…you are fat…the banyaan will help you appear firm and not too jiggly…logic of different varieties was thrust down my throat and I had to wear the offending item. Small wonder therefore that when I moved on to college and hostel life away from home I dispensed with the custom of wearing this undergarment.

And do you know what? I almost felt that I had ‘burnt the bra’. It was a gesture of independence no less significant than my decision to pursue the arts instead of tucking my tail between my legs and going after that engineering degree and career which everyone opined was best suited for me.

Of course I grew up fast enough and realized how childish I had been but somehow the habit of wearing undergarments on my upper torso never restarted and I led a fairly chest free existence all these years.

It was only a couple of years back, when I was in hospital that a sudden urge to wear a banyaan overwhelmed me and I immediately sent my man Friday to pick up a couple from Punjagutta. I wore them for a few days but didn’t really find them comfortable and so they went back into my cupboard. Into the backburner of my mind so to speak.

Now how yesterday evening, as I was getting ready to go for dinner, one of these perked up in front of my socks and underwears, I don’t know. But pop up it did and I wore it. When we came back I was too tired to have my usual night shower so I just slipped into my pajamas and went to bed.

And so when I woke up and walked into the loo I saw my upper half wearing this apparition. And I thought I was seeing you.

Remember Dad, this was your home uniform. A pristine white dhoti and a matching banyaan. The image of you reading the newspaper every morning in this ‘get up’ will never fade from my memory. Nor will the image of you sitting in the balcony in front of a small mirror, a shaving brush, shaving cream, a basin of water, a mug of warm water and a razor that needed its blade replaced ever so often.

How elaborate your shaving ritual was. How much pleasure you used to get out of it. Humming pathetic little Telugu tunes. Looking out at the world in front of you from behind a lathered smile. And the way you left cream on the telephone handset when you had to answer calls between your shaving strokes…priceless.

And what a contrast my shaving is…a two minute operation in front of a wash basin…running water, a modicum of soap and Gillette technology…up…and down…and through!

But yeah, that banyaan sparked off some real old memories. Of you. Of our mornings. Of moments like when you told me that someone had landed on the moon. Or that you wanted me to get the car serviced. Or that you were angry that I did something at college. Or something.

And you know what a single memory does. Triggers off a barrage of memories that come tumbling down in a cascade and drown you in nostalgia. So before all that happens, and I can see my Sunday unfold into a series of stories that I will share with the kids until they run away from sheer boredom…before all that happens, let me just say a warm and loving hello.

Hey Dad…all is good, getting better. And thanks for that:-)