What your father really means to say
- Dec 23, 2020
- 4 min read
by Megha Nayar
When your father asks you to “be a man,” what he really means to say is —
that you must like soccer, that all guys must like soccer—despite its violence or perhaps because of it, that crying is not allowed if you lose, that tears are banned in boys after middle school, that a little pushing and shoving hurt no one, that injury is a rite of growth—never mind which Bible prescribed so, that boys must wear their bruises as a badge of honour bold;
that you’re not allowed to be afraid of lizards and bugs, that how can you not know to fix a light or repair a broken mug, that you must be proficient at all things soil and mud as well as be a connoisseur of paperwork, that you mustn’t dip your nose in effeminate passions like dancing and cooking—those, for a man, are cardinal crimes, that you must be a lover of hard liquor, with no fondness for mellow garbage like wine;
that you must know all about motorcycle upkeep, that a man who can’t work tools is a tool, that speed is an accessory and danger a turn-on and nothing like risky manoeuvres to make you feel good, that every self-respecting man must have his own set of wheels, that bicycles are for kids and electric scooters only for ladies, that public transport was designed for pansies who wear hats and talk about the climate crisis;
that you must have a wife—not a husband (please!), that these feelings of yours are a lifestyle disease, that the doctor should recommend some pill or injection, that doctors are politically correct wimps these days, that the liberals have ruined our great nation, that their ilk is bloody depraved, that Big Pharma should drop everything else and start investing in vaccines that would prevent the monstrosity of young men mating with each other;
that you’re a fool for wanting a paternity break, that (real) men with (real) careers don’t let kids get in the way, that the limitations of your body are a cosmic hint, that you’re hardly a parent if you can’t make your own babies, that it’s a shame your kid—motherless—will be raised by two sappy daddies, that the loaning of wombs should be summarily banned, that these outrageous methods will be the ruin of mankind;
that you’ve broken the masculinity mould and not in a good way, that being a man comes with a fixed palette of shades and none of them are pink or violet, that you’ve failed at the offspring test and must keep a distance for your own sake, that you need not send season’s greetings any more, that you’re hereby excused—for your transgressions as well as from the family fold, that you may please leave, right away, thank you.
***
When your father texts you ten years later that he misses you, what he really means to say is —
that he met with a road accident last month while attempting one of his calculated risks, that his spine is broken into four parts and can never be fixed, that he lies in bed now and stares at the ceiling, that he needs his helper to clean him up morning and evening, that he is so embarrassed he often holds back his pee, that he thinks there can be no greater ignominy than pooping into a diaper and having his bum wiped like a baby;
that nobody except your mother knows about his state, that he won’t let her visit because he can’t bear to see her face, for she would always admonish him to go slow, that he hated her for her fifty shades of No, that she will sit by his bedside now and call him a fool, that he will quietly swallow her words for their truth, that she was indeed wise but he didn’t heed her then, and broken he is now, never to stand on his feet again;
that he needs help to wind up his estate, that he wants to sell off the motorbike rusting in the shed, that he owns so many gizmos and gadgets he must set up a garage sale, that it breaks his heart to give his curated collection away, that he’d like to share some of it with his nearest but you’re near no more, that all his accessories made of leather and metal can do nothing to restore his masculine force;
that he spends his free time on Netflix, that he’s suddenly discovering ways of life that exist beyond his fields, that he is learning about young people of today who are nothing like the young people of his time—and when he says this he isn’t being unkind, that it seems what he once knew to be a choice between two is now an entire spectrum with the option to choose, that he is starting to recognize all the places he went wrong—terribly wrong—and he sobs gently, not knowing what to do;
that it occurs to him, whenever he glimpses kids on TV, that he has a grandchild he once refused to see, that this child must have made it to middle school by now, and he must break bones and get his hands dirty, or maybe not, maybe he just likes to sing and read, maybe he’s been spoilt by his two daddies, maybe he doesn’t believe in fights, maybe he loves painting birds and trees;
that maybe it’s okay if a son does not want to slaughter goats or chase women, that maybe it’s fine if he bakes muffins or takes ballet lessons, that, in fact, he is allowed to not desire the same things as his father, and that for all the grief the father—your father—has unleashed upon the son—you—simply for being himself—yourself—the father is truly, deeply sorry.
Megha Nayar was longlisted for the Commonwealth Short Story Prize 2020. She spends half her time teaching French and English. The other half, she devotes to learning Spanish, writing prose, and pondering the purpose of human existence. Her work has appeared in Variety Pack, Burnt Breakfast, Cauldron Anthology, Potato Soup Journal, Postscript Mag, Ayaskala Magazine and The Daily Drunk Mag, among others. She blogs at meghanayar.tumblr.com and tweets at @meghasnatter.
