I wonder how I could ever forget the good things I enjoyed, and how much I would miss my father. For many years my father worked in Bombay while I was studying in Goa. I remember my mother telling me he would return home one day for good. When would that day come? I had asked myself this many times over.
Every year my father came home on his annual leave. During those days he had taken me everywhere, visiting new places to see and explore, to the beach, to the market place every day to buy fresh fish and groceries, to his favourite restaurant in town for ice-cream, to the hills for walks, to pluck 'canttam' and 'cashew apples', to the lakes and springs for picnics, and to nearby streams for a swim. He had made for me my very own first mini 'robond' (catapult). He had also taken me fishing to the salt-water river, for football games in the nearby town, and to distant places visiting friends and relatives, by bus, taxi and ferry, all of which I had enjoyed immensely.
My father had also taken me along when he had gone to meet the Capuchin Friars at my school at Monte de Guirim, nestled high up on the hill among the verdant surroundings. I remember we had walked our way up through the cashew trees. On our way back we had stopped to pluck ripe cashews from the trees that grew on the slopes of the hill. It had been a great fun-filled day although the climb was very tiring. We had made a brief stop at the shop down the hill for a lime-soda, a real thirst-quencher. We had walked back home on the winding path through the picturesque village. My father greeted the people he knew along the way. He also waved out to the people who worked in the fields. "My Dad seems to know everybody", I had mused in my own thoughts as we walked homewards. Those were the days. I could give all my tomorrows for a single yesterday of that time in my life. Happy Father's Day.
