To the man who walked his math-impaired daughter down the perilous road from multiplication tables to differential calculus. The personal swimming instructor, raag identifier and consoler of weepy, red-nosed four- year-olds whose heroes have fallen. On celluloid.
That dresser-up of rag-doll-sleepy-school-goers, doll's-arm/leg/head-fixer. Tiffin-packer, chocolate-wafer-adder.
Patient-sitter-through of makeovers by six-year-olds, who think that salt-and-pepper hair in at least six bristly ponytails, with a minimum of three bindis on the forehead, is so him.
Photographer of horrific moments - like fancy-dress parties and clown faces.
Embarrass-er of daughters, by playing ancient recordings of said-daughter's-five-year-old-voice soulfully singing:
"Laila main lailaaaa! Aisi hoon lailaaaa,
Har koi chaahe mujhse, milna akelaaa!"
Hummer-of-tunes, never-singer, non-dancer.
Lover of books, The Beatles, and order. Watcher of every. single. news bulletin.
To the maker of the best chicken curry in the *whole* world.
Happy birthday, Papa. May this be one of many, many more.