father

A Father’s Embrace

Chapter 1: The Prayer

In a small orphanage at the edge of a busy city lived a little girl named Eva. Her dark brown curls framed her almond-colored face. While other children complained of boredom, Eva found magic in the ordinary – ants carrying crumbs in perfect lines, raindrops racing down windowpanes, dandelion seeds drifting on summer air.

Unlike the other children who felt the ache of being parentless, Eva carried a different truth in her heart. Years ago, when she was tiny and weeping because she had no parents, her teacher had knelt beside her.

“You are not an orphan, dear,” the teacher had said softly. “Your true Father and Mother live in your heart.”

Those words planted roots deep in Eva’s soul. She embraced them completely, with that pure, unquestioning faith that only children possess. Not once did doubt cloud her certainty. While other children dreamed of being chosen by new parents, Eva already knew she belonged to someone greater than any earthly parent could be.

Each night, Eva knelt beside her small bed, hands folded tight in prayer. She spoke not to some faraway god but to a Father she knew listened to every whispered word:

My Father, please help me be happy
My Father, please show me the way towards You
My Father, please help me find my dream
My Father, please help me know Your Will for me
My Father, be my guide in my heart

On the night before her seventh birthday, after Eva finished her prayer, Eva asked her Father.

Father, could I hear Your voice? Could I see You, just once?

This wasn’t her doubt speaking – it was a child’s heart longing to be closer to someone beloved.

She chose her most treasured dress for the occasion – a light blue sleeveless one with white ruffle frills that touched her knees. It had come in a donation box, but somehow it fit her perfectly, as if meant just for her. She smoothed the fabric with care before climbing into bed, certain that tonight, her birthday night, she would finally meet her Father face to face.

Chapter 2: The Forest’s Welcome

Birdsong woke her – not the usual morning chirps but something musical and intentional, like a birthday melody created just for her. Eva opened her eyes, not to peeling ceiling paint but to ancient trees dappled with golden sunlight.

Fear never touched her. Instead, she felt something like coming home after a long journey – as if the orphanage had been the dream and this forest her real home. The air filled her lungs differently here, each breath deep and sweet.

Eva understood immediately – this was extraordinary and more than a dream. This was an answer, an invitation. The feeling of love surrounding her in this place, the happiness bubbling up from somewhere deep inside – this was her Father’s presence. The forest itself spoke His love directly to her heart.

A blue butterfly landed lightly on her curls. A hummingbird buzzed close, carrying a tiny white flower in its beak, which it tucked gently into her hair. Eva giggled, delighted.

Eva sensing that the beauty around her was a language of love meant just for her, whispered:

“Thank you for inviting me, Father“

A family of deer emerged from between the trees, eyes gentle and knowing. The mother deer approached and nudged Eva’s hand with her velvety nose, then gestured with her head for the girl to follow. The fawn pranced around her excitedly, occasionally rushing back to touch noses with Eva before darting ahead again.

As they walked, Eva noticed how different this forest felt from the small park near the orphanage. The air was pure, each breath filling her with energy. The sky above showed patches of clearest blue, with clouds that seemed to hang low enough to touch, as if welcoming her presence.

In the distance, mountains stood like wise guardians, ancient and knowing. The trees along the path swayed gently, creating a refreshing breeze that carried the scent of wildflowers and old bark. And the flowers themselves – they seemed to turn toward her as she passed, their blossoms brightening, as if offering greeting.

“Everything is alive here“

Eva whispered to herself, understanding intuitively that in this place, everything was aware – conscious in ways she couldn’t fully comprehend but could certainly feel.

Chapter 3: The Garden of Wonder

As the deer family led Eva deeper into the woods, more animals began to appear. Rabbits peeked from behind ferns, squirrels paused on branches to watch her, and butterflies danced around her head.

The mother deer stopped in a patch of sunlight. She looked at Eva, then up at the trees. Eva followed her gaze.

At first, she saw only branches and leaves. But then she noticed how the leaves moved together, like they were talking to each other. The birds weren’t just flying – they were carrying messages from tree to tree.

The fawn nudged Eva’s hand and led her to a puddle of water. When she looked down, she saw not just her reflection but somehow the reflection of the entire forest. In that moment, something clicked in her heart.

“Oh,” Eva whispered. “It’s all connected.”

A bluebird landed on a nearby branch and began to sing. A rabbit thumped its foot in rhythm. Then the crickets joined in, and even the leaves seemed to rustle in time.

Eva didn’t know how, but she understood what they were telling her: Here, nothing is alone. Here, everything belongs. Here, even the smallest ant matters to the tallest tree.

She felt tears of happiness in her eyes. The animals weren’t showing her magic tricks – they were showing her the truth that had always been there, if only people had eyes to see it.

Her heart so full it could no longer contain itself, Eva began to sing. The words came to her as naturally as breathing:

Hidden treasures everywhere,
In the earth and in the air.
Now my eyes can truly see
How we’re bound, eternally.

Father’s love flows through this place,
Touching each with gentle grace.
Tiny seed and mighty tree,
All belong in harmony.

Thank you for this gift so rare,
This secret world You chose to share.
In my heart I make this vow:
I’ll remember what I’ve found now.

When her song ended, the forest responded with a sudden chorus of bird calls, as if applauding. A shower of golden light filtered through the canopy above, touching her face with warmth like a loving hand.

The deer motioned with her head for Eva to follow again. Just ahead, sunlight poured into a clearing where an ancient oak spread its massive branches. Beneath it, an old man tended a garden of plants Eva had never seen before – flowers whose petals seemed to glow from within, medicinal plants whose spicy-sweet fragrances mingled and danced in the air around them. His home was a shelter crafted from interwoven branches and leaves, resembling a giant bird’s nest.

“The birds taught me how,” he would later explain to her with a smile. “They are the greatest architects of the forest.”

The old man looked up. His kind eyes showed no surprise at seeing a seven-year-old girl in a blue dress standing at the edge of his garden, accompanied by woodland creatures.

“Ah, Eva,” he said in a gentle voice. “We’ve been expecting you.”

Throughout the day, Eva experienced wonders beyond imagination. She drank nectar directly from flowers that bent toward her lips, tasted exotic fruits that grew nowhere in her known world, and helped the old man prepare a simple lunch of forest vegetables with lemon and creamy milk made from forest nuts that tasted divine.

“Why is there so much food?” she asked, watching animals come and go, each taking only what they needed.

“In this place,” the old man explained, “there is always enough. No being claims more than they require, and so no being ever lacks. The animals are not lesser than humans here – indeed, in many ways, they understand better how to live in harmony with creation.”

Chapter 4: Father’s Voice

As evening approached, the clouds above the clearing parted, and warm, golden light poured down like honey. Eva felt wrapped in something she couldn’t see but could certainly feel – love, pure and simple.

A voice spoke to her, not through her ears but straight to her heart:

“Few children ever find this place, Eva. You’ve come because your heart has always been open to love.”

Eva stood still, breathing in the golden light. She noticed it dancing around the edges of her blue dress.

“My sweet child,” the voice continued, warm as summer sunshine, “you look so pretty in your special dress. Did you wear it just for me?”

Eva nodded, her face breaking into a delighted smile.

“It’s my favorite,” she whispered. “I wanted to look nice when I met you.”

When the voice fell quiet, Eva gathered her courage. The question she’d wondered about for so long finally found its way out.

“What would you like me to call you?” she asked softly.

A feeling like a gentle smile surrounded her.

“People call me by many names. You can use any that feels right to you.”

Eva thought for a moment, her fingers fidgeting with the ruffle on her dress. Looking up into the golden light, she asked,

“Can I call you my Father?”

The light glowed brighter, like a sunrise.

“I am your Father, Eva. I always have been.”

Tears filled her eyes, happy tears that rolled down her cheeks. For a long moment, she simply stood there, letting the words sink deep.

The light shifted, like someone kneeling down to be at her level.

“You’re wondering about going back, aren’t you?” the voice said gently. “About how to find your way when you return to the orphanage.”

Eva looked up in surprise.

“How did you know what I was thinking?”

“I’m always with you, little one. I know you better than you know yourself.”

She nodded, suddenly shy.

“When I go back… how will I hear you talking to me like this?”

The light seemed to come closer, like a father embracing his child in his arms.

“My voice is quieter there, but it’s still the same voice,” her Father explained. “When you feel peace inside even when things are hard outside, that’s me speaking to you. When you know something is right deep in your heart, that’s me guiding you. Just stay open, like these flowers that always turn toward the sun.”

“But what if someone is mean to me?”

Eva asked, thinking of one of the older girls who sometimes pulled her hair.

“What if I need help and I can’t hear you?”

The light wrapped around her like a warm blanket.

“I’m with you even then, Eva. Sometimes being brave means walking away. Sometimes it means finding someone who can help you. Love doesn’t mean letting others hurt you – it means finding the wisest way forward. When you’re not sure what to do, just get quiet inside and listen. I’ll always find a way to guide you.”

Eva looked at the light around her and smiled.

“Father,” she asked, “in my prayers I always ask to know Your will for me. What is it that You want me to do with my life?”

Her Father’s presence seemed to brighten around her.

“My Will for you, dear one, is simple: to love and be grateful. To see the world as you see it now, with everything connected. To do all things from your heart, whether they seem big or small. When you wash dishes, do it with love. When you help someone, do it with your whole heart. And always remember to be thankful – for the sunrise, for a kind word, for the air you breathe.”

The light gently touched her cheek, like a parent wiping away an unshed tear.

“I don’t need you to do any one specific thing, Eva. I only ask that you bring love and gratitude to everything you do. Your unique way of seeing beauty in simple things is already a gift to the world.”

Eva pondered this for a moment. Then, looking down at her small hands, she asked her next question.

“Father, I’m just a little girl,” she said. “What difference can I make in such a big world?”

“That doesn’t matter, beloved child. What matters is what you choose in each moment. Every choice creates ripples that spread farther than you’ll ever see.

The results of your choices aren’t yours to control. Once you’ve chosen with love, let go of what happens next. The outcome isn’t yours to keep – it was never yours.

A single kind word to someone hurting might save a life you’ll never meet. Standing for truth might spark courage in hearts unknown to you. The smallest act of love ripples outward endlessly, touching shores you’ll never visit.

This is peace – to act with love and then release all attachment to what comes of it. This is how even a little girl becomes light in a shadowed world.”

Eva felt something heavy lift from her shoulders. She didn’t have to fix everything – just do her small part with love.

Looking up into the golden light, she asked her final question, the one she’d wondered about most of all.

“How will I see you when I go back?”

The light grew softer, and her Father answered in words that seemed to sing:

I’m in the love that fills your heart,
In happiness that makes you smile.
I’m in your faith that never wavers,
In your surrender, filled with trust.

When you share kindness with all beings,
From tiniest ant to tallest tree,
That’s when you see me most clearly –
In love that flows abundantly.

Look for me in passing clouds,
In birds that soar on gentle wing.
I dwell in people all around you,
In every plant and living thing.

I live within the smallest atom,
While universes rest in me.
I’m found in kindness and compassion,
In all the goodness you can see.

I’m in your courage when life’s hard,
In strength that helps you stand.
I’m in the calm that finds your heart,
When dark thoughts cloud your mind.

I flow within your very blood, child,
And in each breath that gives you life.
Open your heart to feel my presence –
I’m always here, in joy and strife.

Eva closed her eyes, letting the words wash over her. When she opened them again, she saw the forest differently – every leaf, every creature, every ray of sunlight now shimmered with her Father’s presence.

“I see you now,” she whispered, “everywhere.”

Chapter 5: The Inner Light

From the golden light descended a pendant with an emerald stone that seemed to hold the forest’s essence within its depths. A delicate chain formed itself around the stone and gently floated toward Eva, settling around her neck. The pendant came to rest against her heart, warm and pulsing with the same rhythm as her own heartbeat.

“As you asked in your prayers, my will for you is to experience your world with love and kindness, sharing creation’s beauty with all you meet. This pendant will remind you of what you’ve seen here – a secret knowledge to carry in your heart.”

The golden light gradually faded, leaving Eva standing in the clearing with the emerald pendant warm against her skin, glowing with an inner light that matched her heartbeat.

The old gardener approached, kneeling down to her level and placing his weathered hands gently on her shoulders. His eyes held the same loving warmth she’d felt in God’s presence.

“It is time to return, sweet heart,” he said softly, drawing her into a gentle hug that felt like a blessing.

When he released her, he motioned with a loving sweep of his arm toward the wolf pack waiting silently at the clearing’s edge.

“They will guide you safely home.”

The largest wolf, silver-furred with amber eyes, bowed its head low. Eva followed the wolves through the twilight forest, her heart full of wonders seen and wisdom given.

She woke the next morning in her small orphanage bed. For a moment, she thought it had all been a beautiful dream – until she felt something heavy and warm against her chest. Looking down, she found the emerald pendant, glowing with an inner light that only she could see.

Eva smiled, tucking the pendant beneath her dress. Its origin would remain her secret, but its message she would share through how she lived – with kindness, with wonder, and with a heart surrendered to a wisdom greater than her own.

Naana’s Journey – A Life of Passionate Service and Courage

My body knew before my mind did. A well-known heaviness crept into my chest early this January, planting an unexplained discomfort in my thoughts, a sadness overwhelming me. It wasn’t until much later I realized – my father’s birthday was close. Even now, without memory, grief has its own calendar, its own way of marking time.

For months, I have sidestepped and evaded this difficult writing process. Our subconsciousness has its own way of masking emotions that are too hard to face, too raw to feel. Yet somehow, in the safety of my therapy room, words began to find their way out. Talking about my father’s loss and our dynamic in my therapy sessions was the closest I came towards addressing this grief.

Some memories of my father remain difficult to be put into words – feelings that sit deep. How does one begin to unravel the layers of a relationship shaped by time, growth and unspoken understanding? How do we make sense of the cruelty of a pandemic that stole the chance to say goodbye, leaving so many of us with words and presence denied? I know I may never fully express the depth of what I feel, but I try.

Now, as my mind starts to clear, I realize this heaviness isn’t just grief – it’s my body’s way of remembering, of honoring what was lost.

Naana – that’s what I call my father in my language – often kept his emotions guarded, like there were invisible walls around his heart. Growing up, I often wondered what he was thinking, what worries he carried in silence. Life hadn’t been easy for him. I believe behind the tough exterior he showed others, was a vulnerable man who craved for love, who deeply cared, and who worked tirelessly with perseverance.

Being the eldest son in a joint family, he bore traditional responsibilities, yet transformed what could have been a burden into an act of passionate service. My mother quietly stood by him supporting him through everything.

In his younger years, my parents carefully counted every penny to make ends meet. My father often took on extra shifts to cover unexpected expenses. Yet, as I grew older, I witnessed the result of his hard work – transforming his small clinic into a hospital with multiple patient rooms, an operating theatre, and a diagnostic unit. Even when money was tight, his focus was never on wealth but on how it could be used to provide for his family and serve others.

My father shielded us from the financial hardships he quietly bore. Despite working long hours to support not just our family but also those who depended on him, his relationship with money was guided by compassion.

Naana spent most of his days at the hospital, rarely sleeping at home. From my teenage years, I remember seeing him come home in the early mornings, have a quick breakfast, and leave again for the day. He often slept in a small room at the hospital, feeling deeply responsible as the chief doctor to be close to his in-patients. For many, he wasn’t just their doctor – he was a trusted guide, a man who followed the quiet voice of kindness in his heart.

My father’s medical decisions were driven by integrity, never by profit. He was quick to diagnose and gave patients honest advice, ensuring they didn’t spend unnecessarily. He often sent patients home with whatever medicines he had on hand, knowing it would spare them the immediate burden of buying them. For him, relief couldn’t wait for a prescription to be filled – if he could ease someone’s pain in that moment, he did. My father never turned away patients who couldn’t afford treatment, and over time, he became part of their families – attending their celebrations, sharing their joys, and standing by them in difficult times. For many of his patients, they saw God’s work in his hands.

But beyond his work and financial responsibilities, it was his connection with people that defined him most. His generosity wasn’t impulsive; it was thoughtful and precise. My father had the presence of mind to think ten steps ahead, understanding exactly what kind of help someone needed in a crisis. Whether it was arranging financial aid, offering medical guidance, or leveraging his connections to solve problems, he provided help that was both meaningful and lasting. He managed everything meticulously, carrying a small notebook in his bag where he noted every detail – money transactions, promises made, and help to be given. His memory was remarkable, and he never let anyone down.

This attentiveness extended beyond his profession. In a society often divided by caste and social status, my father broke those barriers with ease. He would sit and share meals with people from all walks of life, savoring food lovingly prepared by them. During important moments in our lives, he encouraged us to seek blessings from those who worked for us – our watchman, our maid – teaching us that respect and love mattered more than status. Watching him live this truth shaped who I am today. I learned to value people not for their wealth or position but for their humanity. This empathy runs deep in all my siblings as well.

He firmly believed that education was the greatest gift one could give. His belief was simple: education could lift entire generations. He quietly sponsored the education of many children – from the children of his employees to others in need – supporting them from school through college. He even helped with marriage expenses and other milestones.

That same attentiveness to people extended to the smallest joys in life, especially food. For Naana, food wasn’t just nourishment – it was another way to connect, comfort, and care. He understood that healing wasn’t just about medicine – it was about comfort. For patients who stayed longer at his hospital and missed home-cooked meals, he would sometimes bring them food from home, knowing how much comfort familiar flavors could bring. It wasn’t just about feeding the body; it was about nourishing their spirit. If a patient offered him homemade food, he graciously accepted it, asking about the recipe and trying to recreate it at home.

Naana loved good food, and he could be exacting when it came to taste. I often joked that he would have made an excellent taste tester. He had an incredible ability to detect even the slightest flaw in a dish, and when something didn’t meet his standards, his disappointment was hard to miss. But he didn’t just critique – he took charge. He loved experimenting in the kitchen, often making a mess that we were left to clean up. Cooking was more than a hobby; it was his escape, a way to heal from the stresses of his demanding job.

I remember childhood evenings when he gathered us on the terrace under the moonlight. Sitting on the floor with all of us around him, he would passionately mix the food with his hands and feed us large, flavorful portions. We had to finish eating quickly before he circled back to us with another handful. It was impossible to refuse him, and he made sure we ate well. This ritual, often sparked by my mother’s complaints about our picky eating, was his way of teaching us how to savor food – how to mix the right flavors to create the perfect taste. He delighted in feeding us, insisting that good food was its own kind of medicine. “Eat with passion,” he would say, believing that enjoying food with joy and gratitude was more important than any strict diet. Moderation, not restriction, was his way.

Just as he found comfort in the flavors of a well-cooked meal, he found equal joy in music. His love for singing was another expression of how he embraced life.

Though he never had the chance to formally learn music, Naana’s passion for it was undeniable. He could listen to Carnatic music and watch old movies and classic film songs for hours. I remember him calling me to sit with him as he watched old black-and-white Tamil or Telugu films, singing along and quizzing me about the raagas. I often tried to escape to help my mother in the kitchen, but he never stopped trying to share his joy for music.

He began to train in Carnatic music in the last years of his life, often singing the songs he had learned during our calls. I would practice my music lessons as he listened intently, offering feedback with a mix of enthusiasm and encouragement. Those were some of the most meaningful moments with him.

Though his physical presence was commanding – tall, stout, with his ever-present leather pouch – it was in his softer, more playful moments that I felt closest to him. Just as he expressed joy through music, he shared lightheartedness in the simplest, silliest ways. He would make playful cat sounds just to tease me, a habit that seemed trivial at the time but now feels deeply endearing. I catch myself doing the same with my own children – acting silly, laughing freely.

He loved having me close, insisting I sit on his lap to watch movies, even when I was well into my teens. Now, as a mother to teenage boys, I recognize this same quality in myself – the way I instinctively draw my children close, inviting them to sit on my lap, even when they think they’re too old for it. It’s a connection I cherish, one that has subconsciously stayed with me.

Naana’s way of expressing affection wasn’t always through words – it was in the unspoken gestures and quiet understanding we shared. I had a way with him – a particular smile and with just that smile, he’d slip me a little extra pocket money, understanding exactly what I wanted without me having to ask.

Perhaps it was this deep connection to people – expressed in small but meaningful gestures that shaped how he lived his life – that made his final battle with COVID so heartbreakingly ironic. A man who had dedicated his life to being present for others, who found joy in shared meals and conversations, spent his last days in isolation.

The world changed in 2020. By March, we were all working remotely, isolated behind masks, afraid even to pass familiar faces on the street. The pandemic spread rapidly in India, and strict lockdowns were imposed. While most people stayed home, my father chose otherwise. He continued serving on the front lines, treating COVID patients without hesitation. We urged him to stay home, but he firmly refused. His conviction was unshakable – if he were to fall ill while caring for his patients, so be it. His duty came first.

In late May 2021, after caring for family members who had contracted COVID, he fell ill himself. At first, it was just a fever and fatigue, but soon his condition worsened. He messaged me once, admitting he was afraid he might not see me again. That message still haunts me.

Despite our pleas, he stayed in the hospital where he worked, quarantining alone. My sister managed to send him home-cooked meals every day, knowing how much comfort food brought him. Cooking had always been his solace, his way of connecting with others. But within a week, his condition deteriorated. A severe lung infection forced him to be moved to a larger hospital and into the ICU. He was alone.

I often think about how Naana would bring home-cooked meals for patients who had to stay in the hospital for long periods. He knew how much they missed their own families and took it upon himself to ease their longing. To him, food wasn’t just nourishment – it was comfort, connection, and a small reminder of home.

During his own isolation in the hospital, when his condition worsened, he asked for the familiar foods he loved. I wonder if, in those moments, he was reaching for the comfort he had so often given to others. As a doctor, he must have understood the gravity of his condition. When the time came, he bravely obliged to being placed on the ventilator, knowing full well what it meant. It breaks my heart to think of how alone he must have felt, facing those final moments without the comfort of family or the warmth of a human touch. I wish I had been there – to hold his hand, to offer him even a fraction of the solace he had given to so many others.

This helplessness – knowing I couldn’t be there, couldn’t hold his hand, couldn’t say goodbye – was a pain that words can’t capture. Being thousands of miles away in the U.S., unable to travel home because of lockdowns, felt deeply unnatural. The heartbreak of those moments lingers, a wound that time can soften but never truly heal.

Yet, even in his final moments, my father was true to himself – a man who lived with compassion, loved deeply, and stood by his principles. His absence left a silence in our lives, but his values, his generosity, and his unwavering acts of service for people continue to guide me.

Knowing that my father spent his final days in the isolation of an ICU, far from the comfort of home and family, is a pain I still carry. A man who found joy in sharing meals, conversations, and connections was left without those very things that defined him.

I hold on to the hope that, in those quiet moments, he found comfort in reflecting on his life – a life rich with purpose and love. I hope he made peace with what he couldn’t control, finding closure with God, forgiving and seeking forgiveness, and knowing that our love reached him, even from afar.

Though his physical presence is gone, Naana’s spirit lives on – in every quiet act of kindness, in every shared meal. This is how I carry him forward – not just in memory, but in the way I choose to live my life.

The irony of life is that it continues even after we lose our loved ones. We remember our special moments, in the mutual love and respect that binds us, and in the lessons, they left behind. Losing Naana brought me a profound spiritual understanding: to take life as it comes, to celebrate people while they are still here, and to not be overly entangled in their flaws. It taught me to live fully, as though there’s no tomorrow, and to honor my own truth. Through this, I honor him.