A Father’s Silent Sacrifice: A Memoir of Love, Struggle, and Legacy

 

Although every day is Father’s Day in the truest sense, a day like this compels me to pause, reflect, and remember the extraordinary man who shaped my life and that of my siblings. As I sit with memories on this Father's Day, I am overwhelmed—not just with gratitude, but with humility—for the countless sacrifices he made for us, often quietly, often without seeking any acknowledgment.

My father was born in a small, remote tribal village tucked away in the wilderness of Maharashtra. There were no facilities, no privileges, and no opportunities—but there was an unbreakable spirit in him. Despite growing up in the face of hardship, he dreamt big for us, his children. He once told me that he had prayed to God for a child who would be intelligent, someone who would contribute not just to the family but to society at large. I was his firstborn, and when he saw that I grasped things quickly as a child, he would often smile and say that God had answered his prayers.

He instilled in us a sense of confidence, of purpose, and above all, discipline. I still remember how he would sit with us late into the night, guiding us through our studies. He had prepared a timetable for us which we had to strictly adhere to. There were rules, and if broken, there were consequences. He would tell us, “Work while you work, play while you play. That’s the way for happy and gay.”

He was strict, not out of anger, but out of love, a love shaped by his unfulfilled dreams. He was an ambitious man, but growing up in an area with no schooling beyond Class 3, those dreams remained only dreams. He wanted us to chase the ambitions he never had the chance to pursue. He was leaving no stone unturned to see us do well in our studies and then in life.

From Class 4 onwards, we had to move to Bhamragad, our tehsil headquarters, which had schooling till Class 10. Every weekend, without fail, he would walk to Bhamragad to check on us. He stayed with us, helped us with our lessons, and even extended his help to other students in need. Education was not just a goal for his own children, it was a mission that he carried for the community.

One of the most remarkable qualities of my father was his progressive mindset. In a village where gender roles were strictly defined, he never discriminated between his sons and daughters. We are six siblings, three brothers and three sisters—and he invested equally in the growth of each of us. He would often tell me, as his eldest child, that it was my duty to take care of my siblings as I moved forward in life. Perhaps he foresaw a brighter future for me, one he couldn't fully articulate, but deeply believed in.

He always encouraged us not to settle for less, to stretch our wings and fly beyond the confines of our circumstances. He wanted us to be disciplined, to pursue excellence, and to be useful to society. Unlike many parents in our village, he would encourage us to sit near the village elders during their panchayat discussions, to listen, to learn, and to grow. He believed that wisdom came not just from books, but from life experiences and community conversations. He respected the sagacious elders of our tribal community and ensured we imbibed their values too.

When I moved to Gadchiroli for high school, he longed to visit me and meet my teachers, to plead with them to guide me well. But the distance and the lack of financial resources held him back. His inability to support me further hurt him deeply. Still, he never let me give up. He would often say, "You must move ahead, come what may."

My father was an educated man by the standards of our village. He had studied up to the 7th standard, could read and write in Marathi fluently, and held great respect among the villagers. In a region affected by Maoist activities, he was a rare pillar of courage and guidance. He would help the villagers in police cases, write applications, speak on their behalf, and defend them when they were wrongfully accused.

Even more astonishing was his courage to speak truth to power. He would openly argue with Maoist leaders, telling them their actions were bringing suffering to the innocent villagers. While my mother pleaded with him to stay silent, he never backed down. And yet, he was fortunate—they listened to him and, importantly, never harmed him. He held no fear for his life because he carried a heart full of responsibility. If I today aspire to serve society in any meaningful way, it is because of him.

But as I recount his life, I cannot help but feel an ache in my heart. He struggled throughout his life—he never wore good clothes, never ate to his heart's content. He lost his mother when he was just two years old. His stepmother was unkind, often depriving him of food. It was his eldest sister who raised him, and he revered her like a mother throughout his life.

He passed away while we were still studying. He did not live to see what we have become. Today, I am a professor at the University of Delhi. My younger brother is an officer in the Government of Maharashtra. Our sisters are educated and settled, just as he wished. If he were alive, we could have offered him the comfort and joy he never had. We could have shown him the world beyond the forests he knew, given him the good food and warm clothes he always denied himself.

But fate had other plans. Today, I believe he watches over us from his heavenly abode, smiling at our achievements and protecting us as he always did. We, his children, carry his legacy forward, and we pray for the eternal peace of his soul.

He was not just our father. He was our first teacher, our guardian angel, and our unsung hero.