The Tiger

Somedays, I used to ask my father to draw something for me. And he used to. At least, that’s how I remember it . Or, it’s highly likely he might have chosen to try his hand in drawing himself. I don't remember to the point now, but he did draw for sure pretty enthusiastically.

When in school, I loved drawing, sketching, painting. The dining table would turn into my art studio, with brushes, pencils, and the faint smell of poster colors. On rare occasions my father (my “Baba“) would quietly take the chair next to me. He never asked what I was creating or offered any advice. He just sat there. Calm, smiling, and watching.

Maybe he liked my work.
Maybe he didn’t understand it.
Maybe he wasn’t thinking about it at all. I dearly loved those few minutes of quiet companionship.

And then, once in a while, came his own burst of creativity - his famous ‘Tiger’.
The same tiger every time. A long one. The pencil tip made a long scratching sound against the paper for it, that long. This Tiger was one smiling, with a mustache just like my father’s. All four legs perfectly aligned, unbothered by anatomy, full of confidence with its sheer exsistance. It was my father’s signature artistic creation. The only one.

After finishing, Baba would lean back slightly, chin lifted, smiling at his tiger. He would turn to me, eyes twinkling:

“How’s he? Looks good, right?”

I would pause, tilt my head, observe it thoroughly (me a less than 10year old then) like an art critic and finally say, “Yes, it’s nice, Baba.”

He would smile, satisfied, and say,

“Nice.

Carry on. I’ll get going now.”

The artist, his tiger, and the quiet between us - all found their place on that dining table. We never needed long,deep,complicated conversations to feel close. His silence wasn’t absence , it was presence in its purest form.

Being there was enough.