This year, Father’s Day falls on June 15th, 2025. Coincidentally, it also happens to be my father’s birthday. He passed away in 2005, at the age of 64, when I was 30.
I stayed with my father until I turned 17—then I moved to a hostel, and later, to another city for work. In all the years we spent under the same roof, and even in the years that followed, the total time we actually interacted with each other would not have exceeded two hours—120 minutes.
And in those 120 minutes, the sentences I heard most often were:
• “When are your exams?”
• “Did you note down the timetable correctly?”
• “Did you collect your answer sheets?”
• “Did you study well?”
I don’t recall any other kind of conversation. We were from a different generation—when fathers were distant, strict, aloof. Sometimes, they seemed indifferent. But they were sincere providers. Not once in my life did I have to ask for anything. Everything I needed was always there—unasked, in surplus.
Now, being a father myself, I am nothing like him. I talk, I laugh, I fight, I sing, I dance, and I argue with my 6-year-old son. I carry him on my back, I answer his endless questions, I tell him stories even when I’m tired. And yet, not a day goes by without remembering those quiet, stoic, and strangely comforting moments with my own father.
We hardly spoke. But perhaps, some love is best expressed in silence.