My Father’s ‘Selfishness’ Was Love: The Drunken Walrus I Misunderstood
It's been years since my father left us, and I still carry a tangle of memories about him. He was a good man, I know that now, but back then, I mostly saw the parts that baffled or even angered me. He treated his body like a forgotten temple – endless cups of *kadak chai*, greasy *samosas*, a pack of cigarettes a day, and a hearty glass of whisky every evening. We often joked he was trying to collect all the vices, and I often thought he was incredibly selfish for it, never truly taking care of himself.
His drinking wasn't a daily disaster, not at home anyway. But put him in a wedding hall, surrounded by familiar faces and booming Bollywood music, and he transformed. By midnight, my father, our dignified patriarch, would be a gyrating, laughing force of nature – what I privately called his 'majestic walrus' phase. The aunties adored his spirit, clapping and egging him on. My stomach, however, would churn with a mixture of embarrassment and dread.
The true horror began when the party winded down. The task of prying him from the dance floor, past insistent uncles trying to force "one last peg," and then somehow, *somehow*, dragging his heavy, blissfully unaware frame home always fell to me. My mother, bless her heart, would have long since given up, her face etched with a familiar weariness. It wasn't just physical exhaustion; it was the sheer embarrassment, the quiet shame that clung to me as I maneuvered my stumbling father through dimly lit streets, a silent burden that I felt keenly, every single time. It seemed so selfish then. Now, I wonder if it was something else entirely.
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