Writers Jam

It’s been about 20 minutes since you picked me up. There’s a faint, but distinct thudding noise emanating from the left of the car about five times a second.

“What’s that noise?” I ask.

“The, uh, suspension is broken. Needs fixing. Will cost about nine thousand rupees.” you say.

“I don’t think it’s worth it. It’s a crap car. Might as well trade up, we’ve had this one a while. Maa has been thinking of changing hers, maybe you can take that one and we can use this for the buyback?” I suggest.

“Hmm.” You (don’t) say.

We continue to drive in silence.

We’re driving to the city from my podunk college town so I can have some of your suits made over to fit me. You weren’t super on board with the idea at first, but after some insistence on my part, here we are.

“My music hasn’t been playing for a while. Can you see what's wrong?” You say, breaking the silence.

I look at your phone. It’s connected to the car and playing music, but the car speakers seem to disagree since there’s no sound coming out of them.

The car’s music system is a Kenwood made at the time the car was new, but which belongs in 2005 based on how it feels to use. It seems to have gone into demo mode. I close out of the demo.

No dice. I begin to poke through the settings. It takes a lot of stabbing at the ancient touch screen, but I manage to disable the demo and re-pair your phone.

Kishore Kumar fills the car once again.

An ad interrupts O Mere Dil Ke Chain. I click my teeth.

“Do you want me to set you up with an app so you can close the screen and do other stuff while listening to music? You can play whatever you want from YouTube. And it has no ads.”

You grunt in response. Could have been a yes or a no, but I say, “Okay”, and get to work setting up the hacked YouTube client. I put the music back on, the same music you were playing before.

The jukebox YouTube video you’ve found gets into more and more obscure music, until I've had enough. I pick up your phone and change the song.

You don’t complain. I think about all the years you’ve listened to my cringey pop music without complaint.

I’ve been getting into the Hindi greats, though, and play a song I’ve been listening to recently.

Quietly, you begin to sing along. I do too.

Who says a father’s love can’t be measured? I think we should measure it in kilometers. 32 from home to college, another 15 or so so far toward the city, 25 more by the time we get to the tailor’s, another 40 to drop me back to college, and 32 more to go home.

144 kilometers of love over six hours.

Probably my earliest memory of school isn’t school itself, but sitting in your lap while you drove me there, clutching the steering wheel and pretending to drive.

The Maruti 800 we had at the time had no power steering or any real convenience features. It played cassette tapes, which was great in 1998, but not so much in 2009.

I didn’t know anything better of course, being six at the time, so I was content with the collection of cassettes in the dash at all times, pushing them in, ejecting them, ignoring the music, sometimes pulling out the tape. I was kind of a horrible child.

Ding. I get a text on my phone.

“Maa asks whether she should cook lunch. She’s on leave, isn’t she? Do you think we’ll be home in time or will she have to wait too long to eat?” I ask. Whenever you both are fighting, I get to be the mouthpiece.

“We’ll be home by two.” You say, not looking away from the road.

“In that case I’ll let her know she can cook.” I say.

“Actually, we’ll get it from outside. Ask her what she wants and we can get it packed.”

I let my mum know we’ll be lunching outside.

Years after that drive to the tailor, a month or two after the divorce, I visited your new house. It didn't feel like a home and I don't know that it ever will. You asked me if I'd like some cup noodles. I didn't know why you had them in your house. I said I had eaten at home.

"Take them with you. I only bought them because you like them."

I ended up with two packs of cup noodles in my car as I drove home that day.

Every little interaction with you feels like it's too much. It stings because it's what I never had growing up, because it's something I feel like I had to earn. Do you know how that feels? To have to earn your father's love? I guess you can tell why it's never enough, too.

What do you do with a father who wasn't there for you growing up, was never a friend, but now is trying to be? Who remembers your obsession with cup noodles but not how old you are?

In On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous, Ocean Vuong writes:

“It's true that, in Vietnamese, we rarely say I love you, and when we do, it is almost always in English. Care and love, for us, are pronounced clearly through service…”

I used to think that maybe you had a little Vietnamese in you. Maybe that was just a child trying desperately to make something of all this conflicting information. I think the answer here is pretty simple.

With Indian fathers, you take the love you can get and run.

As you drop me back off at college, the music has stopped again.

"I'll be home next month. Text me when you get home, please."

I step out of the car and I'm about to grab my bag out of the back, when you ask, "Hey, what was that music thing you set up?"

I show it to you, barely keeping a grin off my face. I begin the walk back to my apartment.