"Wrapped in Brown Paper and Care" — A Father’s Day Tribute to the Man Who Built Us Wings, Not Walls

We didn’t always understand his rules. But now I know — they were his way of loving us in a place that didn’t always make it easy for girls to grow up freely.

Growing up as one of four daughters in Meerut — a city with winding lanes, the scent of old bookstores and simmering street food, its markets alive with colour, and its own share of unease — came with its realities. Like many towns in western UP, India, it had moments that made parents wary. But through it all, we had our shield. Our father. A strict, no-nonsense disciplinarian who, in hindsight, was doing everything he could to keep his daughters safe.

Back then, his curfews, the sound of his stern voice echoing down the hallway, and the way he paused before saying “no” felt too harsh, too unrelenting — especially when all we craved was a little freedom. But now I see: that was his love language. That was how he built a fortress around us—sturdy, silent, and always there — without ever showing us the dangers he was keeping at bay.

And beneath that tough exterior, he gifted us something quietly profound — a love for books, a hunger for learning, and the courage to dream. Our home smelled of old paper and fresh ink. Magazines sat in carefully stacked piles. He brought home books wrapped in brown paper, often before we’d even asked for them. Long before it was common to encourage daughters to build careers, he had already decided that we must stand tall on our own feet. He may not have said the words, but his every act nudged us towards independence.

He was the first to rush out when school projects were due. I can still hear the soft snip of scissors, the rustle of silver paper, the click of matchboxes being emptied to build tiny furniture. Rubber balls pricked with sequins, slippers cut out of thermocol — brought to life with his patience and pride. Every single year, he covered our notebooks in crisp brown paper, creased perfectly at the corners. That wasn’t just neatness. That was ritual. That was his way of preparing us for a new beginning — a fresh page, wrapped in quiet care.

Vacations were sacred. He never skipped them. Whether it was the pine-scented air of Mussoorie or earlier, the crisp, cool of Kashmir, he made sure we had our summer escapes. I realise now those trips came at a cost — longer tours, late-night reports, skipped indulgences. But we never saw the weight of it. He carried it in silence, like he carried everything.

And Sundays — they were sacred too. Not just for our ice cream trips to Abulane, where we cradled colourful plastic balls filled with Gaylord’s creamy scoops, but for his mutton curry too. The rich aroma would fill every corner of our home — warm spices dancing in oil, the meat slow-cooked to perfect tenderness. It was his language of love, wordless but complete. No dramatic hugs. Just a full plate, placed in front of four excited girls. His way of saying: You matter. I’m here.

He rarely spent on himself. His clothes were functional. His watch — the same one for years. But we never felt the lack of anything — new outfits for festivals and birthdays, board games when results came out, and always, more books to line our shelves.

To others, he seemed intimidating — the kind of father who made our friends lower their voices and fix their postures. But behind that commanding presence was a man who wept during old Hindi films and laughed freely at our smallest jokes. His heart has always been larger than his persona — steady, dependable, deeply loyal. Not just to us, but to his siblings, friends, and even colleagues who leaned on him without hesitation.

There’s one moment I carry with me like a talisman — the night before my wedding. As the eldest daughter, I could sense the storm he was swallowing. But in that quiet hug, he whispered, “Be strong in your new home. Love and respect everyone, but never tolerate unfairness. Stand up for yourself.” That single sentence gave me a quiet strength that never left me. He wasn’t just sending off a daughter. He was sending off a woman, prepared to hold her ground.

Now, as time softens the lines of his face and his voice grows gentler, we see a different side of him — nostalgic, reflective, sometimes unexpectedly tender. But he still commands the room like before, and his words still ground us. Whether it’s a family decision or a moment of uncertainty, we still turn to him — because some anchors don’t loosen with age. They only deepen.

This Father’s Day, I don’t just want to thank him.
I want to honour him.

For being our shield in the storm.
For choosing love wrapped in discipline.
For filling our shelves with books and our hearts with ambition.
For showing us strength that didn’t shout — it simply showed up.
For those perfect Sunday mutton curries — his quiet language of love.
For whispering courage into my soul, just when I needed it most.
For being the one man we could always, always count on.

Happy Father’s Day, Papa.
You never said, “I love you.”
You just made mutton curry every Sunday, exactly the way we liked it.
You taught us that love doesn’t need noise — just presence.
You were always enough.
You still are. And always will be.

[P.S.- This piece was written today — from the quiet corner of a hospital room — as Papa recovers from surgery for a leg fracture. As I watched him rest, still and silent, I found myself reaching for words I’ve carried for years. Maybe it was the beeping monitors, or maybe just the ache of seeing your strongest person look so fragile — but somewhere between those moments, this tribute poured out.

As I hit ‘save,’ I say a silent prayer for his healing, for his strength, and for many more Sundays filled with his laughter, his stories, and his quiet presence. May he walk strong again soon, with the same steady steps that always carried us forward.]