The bucket was red.

The earliest memory I have of my life, is a really strange one. I was sitting inside an auto-rickshaw, on my mother's lap, along with other children and their mothers. I don't really remember where we were going, just that it was an important day. Something tells me it was my first day of pre-school but it could have been a vaccination date for all I know. My father was washing his car. No wait, maybe his gate. He was definitely washing something since he had a bucket and a mug in his hand. As the auto kept moving away from the house, the silhouette of my father  waving goodbye kept getting smaller. Maybe it was the early morning fog or maybe my then-undetected amblyopia or just my loss of memory but he kept blurring as the auto moved forward. As babies, I am assuming, we don't really know the value or significance of a family member. To us, he or she is just another random person that lives in the house, feeds us Cerelac, changes our diapers. They hold no meaning, no background, no emotion. As my father waved goodbye, I felt that I finally understood what he was. I remember knowing that the silhouette of the only man on that street with a bucket was related to me. Perhaps this realization was the only reason I remember the scene. I've felt this connection with him only twice in my life. The second memory is of the day I left Bombay. 

I was inside the train with my mother, again. And as the train started moving I saw my father waving me goodbye. It was only the second time I've seen him get teary eyed.

Fathers never change.