Letters to Dad

Ever since he can remember, his dad has been his best friend. A fact he wasn’t very comfortable with until he grew up. His friends always found reasons to stay away from their fathers, and he did the exact opposite. He couldn’t get enough of him.

When he moved to Japan for a few months in 2000 for work, the distance felt far too great. For a nine-year-old boy who was used to a staple diet of stories, tickles, giggles and kisses every night, it was tough surviving on a few measly minutes over the phone every day.

He had his own special way of keeping in touch though. An old assembled desktop PC he had put together with his dad. A 15-inch Samsung monitor, 256 MB of memory, a Pentium III processor, and a dial-up internet connection. That was it. His portal to reach out to his dad and pour out all his repressed emotions.

Almost every day after school, he wrote emails to him. Some were sad, some were bubbly, some were filled with angst, and some written out of sheer boredom. Everything that caused him frustration, everything that sparked joy, everything that made up his day went into those little electronic letters.

His dad downloaded them to his office computer and savoured them in his hotel room. He replied to every one of them. Sometimes he even shared PDF files with vivid descriptions and little drawings of his experiences in Japan. They held accounts of what he cooked, of the culture and cuisine, of how cute the babies were, of all the things he bought for him.

Once, he even sent him a PPS tutorial on how to tie a tie properly. He wasn’t going to put off essential lessons a father was supposed to give his son just because he was away. He even wrote down short practice notes for him just before his Hindi exams.

One day, he received something special in his inbox. It was an audio recording from his son! He was surprised to see he had figured how to add an attachment on his own. When he heard his voice —this squeaky, high-pitched, excited little piece of nonsense— his eyes welled up. What an utter joy to hear from your child. Knowing they’re thinking of you, waiting for you, missing you.

He must have played it at least a hundred times, especially when things got rough. Sitting alone in his room having rice with some rasam (which was supposed to be sambar), he missed home terribly. Back then, they held on to every new type of technology that let them hold each other just a bit closer, just a bit longer.

He had no way of knowing then, that twenty years later his son would travel to Japan for work and receive a video call from him on his birthday. The distance wouldn’t seem so vast anymore. He’d wave at him and he’d wave back, flashing all his teeth at him with joy.

If he had known then, that in just a few years, technology would make it easier to see him in real-time, perhaps he would have slept easy. He would have taken heart in knowing that though separation was inevitable, looking at pixelated smiles of his family was all he’d need to get through a bad day.

Back in 2000, it would have seemed like magic. And sometimes, a little magic is all you need.