Describe a family member.
(A reflection inspired by my book About Life, Choices, and Potholes)
If I had to describe my father, I wouldn’t start with his profession or his habits — though I could. He was an engineer by training, a man of tools and precision, but his real craft was patience. The kind that doesn’t make noise, doesn’t demand recognition, but stays steady like the background hum of a ceiling fan on a humid night — always there, always working.
Growing up, I used to think he was too quiet. He didn’t express affection in words; he showed it in ways you’d miss unless you were really paying attention — an extra roti on my plate before I sat down, the car tank always full, the lights left on when I returned late. His love language was logistics.
When I moved to the US, I thought I was leaving that world behind — the world of early mornings, the smell of oil and diesel from his workshop, the steady rhythm of his tools. I was chasing independence, identity, a new story. But years later, when life hit a wall — job loss, immigration uncertainty, heartbreak — it was his voice, calm and undramatic, that steadied me again.
In About Life, Choices, and Potholes, I write about that moment — when he cleaned up after my mess despite just recovering from spine surgery, even as eviction threats and house-hunting chaos unfolded around us. He didn’t complain. Didn’t remind me of sacrifices. Just did what needed to be done.
It took me years to understand that kind of strength — the quiet resilience of doing what life demands, not because it’s fair or easy, but because someone has to.
He’s the kind of man who believes in roads — in building them, fixing them, walking them. And maybe that’s why the book carries the word potholes in its title. Because life, as he taught me, is just that — a long, uneven road you keep driving on, knowing you’ll hit bumps, but trusting you’ll reach home.
If there’s one thing my father has taught me, it’s this:
Love doesn’t always arrive wrapped in words.
Sometimes, it’s in the quiet act of showing up — again and again — even when no one’s watching.
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