When I was young, my father always told me bed-time stories. He seldom read them aloud from books. Beautiful stories based on what he would read in books and newspapers. Stories about expeditions to the North Pole. About planets and the universe. About people, aliens, animals and birds. He had told me the story of Titanic when I was three. I remember this one evening a long time ago, I had been in bed suffering from viral fever and had begged my father to tell me a story. He had read out the story of Happy Prince (Oscar Wilde) and I remember hot tears had run down my cheeks, and he had kissed my forehead and had narrated a happier story.
Years later, even when Papa stopped the bed-time storytelling, we would spend an hour every morning together. Pouring over the newspapers (something that I hated doing and my father forced me to), I would interrupt him every five minutes, questioning him about something that I had read. That one hour was ours. He would patiently discuss things with me (not counting his comments on how his intention was to read the newspaper and not chat with me). That was when we spoke about life, problems, friendship, boy-friends, disappointments, et al. It helped that both of us have common interests. We spoke about science and art with as much zeal as we spoke about books, music and movies. My longest phone calls are yet to my father.
If there’s anything that I hate about growing up, it is the nights. As I lie alone in my bed missing the comforting warmth of my dogs at my feet, and the silence of the night is broken by the loud strains of music, I wish that I could once more listen to Papa’s bedtime stories, knowing that if I cried he would hug and comfort me, till I fell asleep.