my father Essay

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my father was a quiet, brave and humble person. somehow i feel that i have inherited these personality traits from him. he died in 1992. standing at approximately five feet six inches, he seemed like a big person. in actual life, he was a shy and namby-pamby guy. like many of his countrymen, he had an oval face with sharp features. his eyes set deep in the face were healthy and bright. his reddish face was covered with a well-trimmed beard. his well-kept thick moustache completedhis picture of a typical sikh with a nicely dressed turban on his head. i will never forget the turban incident that happened years ago. i have forgotten all the chit-chat we had, but the bedtime stories are still vivid in my mind. rustum and shobrah, sakuntala, heer-ranjah, dara singh, subhan chandra bose, mahatma gandhi, mohamad ali jinnah and many other heroes were first introduced to me in these story sessions. at that time, the idea of reality or fantasy had no effect on my concentration. what i wanted was a story, an adventure told elaborately and laboriously. that he provided superbly until someone kept placing his right thumb in his mouth. my elder brother had the habit of doing that. instead of sucking his thumb himself, he would expertly place it in my father's mouth. my second son, kevin does the same thing today. some of the other things that i remember are not so much of his words but his deeds. the constant rides to school, every school day, every morning and every evening. he would take my elder brother to school in the morning and then continue with his daily duties. in the afternoon, he would take me to school and on his way home, fetch my brother. in the evenings, he would take my brother to school for some extra mural activities. late in the evenings, he would take both of us back home. we would sit comfortably on the iant carrier at the back of his bicycle. a few

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