Remembering my Dad on ‘Father’s Day’.
I remember my father had taken me everywhere during my school holidays, visiting new places to see and explore, to the beach, to the market place every day to buy fresh fish and groceries, to my favourite restaurant in town for ice-cream, to the nearby hills for walks and to pluck 'canttam' and 'cashew apples', to the lakes and springs for picnics, and to nearby rivers for a swim.
My father had made for me my very own first mini catapult (Konkani: 'robond'). He had also taken me fishing to the salt-water river, to watch football games in the nearby town, and to distant places visiting friends and relatives, by bus, taxi and ferry, all of which I had enjoyed immensely.
I remember my father had also taken me along when he had gone to meet the Capuchin Friars at my school, nestled high up on the hill of Monte de Guirim, Bardez, Goa, among the verdant surroundings. On our way back we had stopped to pluck ripe cashews from the trees that grew on the slopes of the hill. It had been a great fun-filled day although the climb was very tiring. We had made a brief stop at the shop down the hill for a soda, a real thirst-quencher. They had walked back home on the winding path through our picturesque village. Many people seemed to have known him as he greeted them along the way. He also waved out to the people who worked in the fields. "My Dad knows everybody”, I had thought. I still miss him and his humble ways.
