My dad told me his dream. Not his dreams for me to become a doctor or get married, but his actual dream from last night that made him fall out of bed in the middle of the night.
My dad and I barely talk on the phone. Our conversations usually last less than two minutes before he hands the phone over to my mom. It wasn’t any better when I still lived in India. Back then, our conversations mostly consisted of his eyes being glued to the TV while he listened to me with one ear and followed his sports channel with the other. We never really talked about our lives, our dreams, or even our day-to-day happenings. I think it’s safe to say that I knew my dad as my father, but I had very little sense of what kind of person he was. The only things I could say with any confidence were that he likes butterscotch-flavored ice cream and Cadbury Dairy Milk chocolate with fruit and nut. Usually, I’d tell my mom about my life and she would filter through it, letting my dad know only what he needed to know about his daughter. This is quite standard for most Asian households. If you grew up having open conversations about life, worldly affairs and relationships, instead of exam grades and college applications, you had a very different childhood than most of your friends.
But over the past couple of years, things have slightly changed. When I call both my parents, I’m put on speakerphone. They both listen to what’s happening in my life, with me doing most of the talking and them chiming in with updates or opinions. But when I call my dad when he’s home alone, we have actual conversations—like two individual grownups. Before, when I called him when my mom was not at home, we talked only about mundane things like what he was doing for meals without my mom (yes, my dad can’t cook, like most Asian dads), or that he’s going on walks and playing table tennis with his friends, or that he misses mum. But now, when I call him when Mum’s not home, we might start off our chats with the same routine, but after a few minutes, the conversation shifts to more interesting topics where we discuss global politics, world affairs, religion, relationships, childhoods (both mine and his), and even life lessons. I tell him what the road has taught me, and he tells me what almost seventy years of living a responsible life has taught him.
He expresses his opinions, interrupts me a lot, but still listens to my take on every topic. We talk like two human beings, not just father and daughter. In a strange way, I feel like my dad respects me. I’m still his little girl, and he feels the need to protect me, but at the same time, he feels pride and likes the person I’ve grown into.
I love these phone calls. Today was the third time we’ve had a call like this, and I often think back on them with a sense of complete joy and contentment. But today’s phone call was even more special. For the first time, we talked about dreams. Not the kind where he tells me he always wanted to be a doctor so I should become one, but the kind where he tells me what he dreamt in his sleep. The dream that woke him up to find himself lying on the floor next to his bed with a swollen knee.
I asked him what the dream was, and he said, “I can’t tell you that, you’ll laugh at me.” I insisted, and he finally unwrapped it for me. He was in a jungle, being chased by five big wolves, running as fast as his legs could take him. He reached the edge of a cliff and had to make a choice: either get devoured by the wolves, or take a risk and jump off the cliff, hoping for a soft landing with fewer injuries. He decided to leap. He paused for a second and said to me, “And before I knew it, I woke up on the floor with a swollen knee!”
We both burst into laughter. It was the first time I was experiencing the raw version of my dad as a person. He was so excited to tell me his dream, and we both had an open-mouthed, loud, hearty laugh—the kind we share thanks to genetics. In that moment, I felt a genuine connection, something I hadn’t experienced with him in thirty-seven years of my life. It was one of the best feelings I’ve had in a long time.