Take a look at this video of this Bihari rickshaw puller stuck in the Patna floods. I am sure you could not have missed it in the news recently.
How many of you fathers can identify with this man? As a father and a provider to my family, I feel a kinship with him that I cannot describe.
I understand toxic masculinity. I understand the need for equality and feminism (in fact, I am a feminist). I also know men need no defending. But I know society today looks at a man and expects him to take care of his family, even in the most woke parts of the community, with a rare exception few and far between.
So, my heart breaks when I hear this tough-as-nails, macho, man-of-a-man rickshaw puller cry because he is about to lose his livelihood.
I cannot claim to know for certain what he’s thinking, but I can bet he isn’t concerned for his safety or life. He is most probably worried about how he’ll feed his family without the asset he worked so hard to acquire.
His tears are not about the physical pain but about the humiliation of not being able to feed and clothe people who are depending on him. Of letting the very people he loves down. He is sad. He is afraid of disappointing them. He is angry at being disappointed at himself and not being able to control the situation. He is crying because he is expected to know what to do, by his family, by his society, by his friends & peers, by his creditors & debtors, by his vendors & customers, and by people who rely on him. He is crying because he has, along with all those people, let himself down. Or so he believes.
I cried with him.
I understand exactly what he’s going through. I wish I could reach out and tell him he shouldn’t be so hard on himself. That being a dad & husband, son & brother, and breadwinner & protector isn’t his only identity. I wish I had enough resources to make his pain go away, even temporarily.
This is not about the floods. This is not about politics. This is about being a cisgendered heterosexual Indian man. I know we are too privileged for us to demand any sympathy. But sometimes, very rarely, we should be allowed a tear or two of our own, without needing to hide it.
Don’t worry though. Tomorrow morning, we’ll be back, laughing raucously, making light of the situation, putting our heads down and heading off to work, ready to take on the world. For our loved ones. So, good night. Sleep tight. Tomorrow, everything is going to be fine.
And yes, I miss you, Baba, my Superman. You are the font of my strength and resolve. I love you more than I ever did.
P.S: My father, the late Wg Cdr (later Air India Capt) Anil Gadgil passed away suddenly on 08 August 2019, without warning. He was 72, and spent his last day teaching his student pilots flying. He was doing what he loved till the last breath. As a pilot, he was brilliant (his colleagues, seniors, and juniors will vouch for this). As an IAF officer and a gentleman, he was a cut above. But it was as a father that I remember him the most. To me, he remains, even as I look my 50th year in the eye, Superman. My Baba strongest. He is my rock, even when he is no longer with me.
