The Thread That Runs Through Us, A Father’s Day Reflection

Another Father’s Day has arrived.
A year has passed yet not much has changed. Or perhaps everything has changed, but so gradually that one notices it only when pausing to look back.
My father remains absent and present in equal measure. Forty-seven years after his departure, I still find myself consulting him in silent conversations. Time has diminished neither affection nor gratitude. If anything, advancing age has brought a deeper appreciation of what he accomplished, often without resources, recognition, or complaint.
When I was young, I admired my father. As I grew older, I respected him. Today, having spent decades as a father myself, I am astonished by him.
I now understand that the true measure of a father lies not in authority but in endurance; not in what he says, but in what he quietly bears.
What distinguished Babuji most was not merely his sacrifice, but his patience. As I search my memory, I cannot recall a single occasion on which he scolded me. Not one. This may sound improbable in an age when impatience has become almost a habit, but it is true. His discipline was gentle, his corrections measured, and his faith in us unwavering.
More remarkably, he taught not through instruction but through example. His life was his lesson. His honesty taught integrity. His diligence taught industry. His curiosity taught respect for learning. He never needed to preach because he practised. Looking back, I realise that the most powerful education we received came not from what he told us, but from what we saw him do.
My sons are now fathers themselves. Their children, once infants in their arms, stand on the threshold of adolescence. Watching them, I often experience a curious sensation. It is as though I am simultaneously looking forward and backward in time. I see the future in my grandchildren and echoes of the past in their fathers.
This Father’s Day, therefore, I find myself less inclined to offer advice and more inclined to share a few reflections.
The first is that fatherhood is a continuing education.
One begins with confidence, acquires experience, and ends with humility.
In youth, we believe our task is to guide our children. Later we discover that they have been teaching us all along—patience, tolerance, adaptability, and the wisdom to distinguish what truly matters from what merely appears important.
I know that I am a different father today from the father I was thirty years ago. My convictions remain largely unchanged, but my certainties have softened. I no longer feel compelled to win every argument or correct every perceived error. Time teaches us that affection often matters more than agreement, and relationships more than opinions.
My second reflection concerns inheritance.
Families commonly think of inheritance as property, possessions, or wealth. Yet the most enduring inheritances are invisible.
My father left us no grand estate. Instead, he entrusted us with three enduring assets: Intelligence, Integrity, and Industry.
Intelligence—not merely education, but curiosity and the courage to think independently.
Integrity—not merely honesty, but fidelity to one’s principles when compromise appears convenient.
Industry—not merely hard work, but disciplined effort sustained over a lifetime.
These three virtues have quietly guided our family across generations. They remain as relevant today as they were in my father’s time, perhaps even more so. If there is any legacy worth preserving and passing on, it is this.
My third reflection concerns a challenge unique to my sons’ generation.
Every age presents fathers with a different adversary.
My father’s generation battled scarcity. My generation wrestled with uncertainty and rapid social change. Today’s fathers confront something less visible but equally formidable: the omnipresent screen.
For the first time in human history, children’s attention has become a commodity, actively sought, purchased, and manipulated by technologies designed to keep them engaged. The danger is not simply that children spend too much time looking at screens. It is that they may gradually lose the capacity for reflection, concentration, wonder, and stillness.
And here, my dear sons, permit your father a few words spoken not as advice but as hope.
Be patient with your children. Empathise with them.
Do not lose your temper merely because they are young, energetic, stubborn, or occasionally unreasonable. Childhood was never meant to be tidy. Remember how much patience was shown to us.
Spend time with them.
No possession, no holiday, no expensive gift can substitute for your presence. The memories that endure are seldom of things purchased; they are of conversations shared, walks taken together, stories told at bedtime, and laughter that filled ordinary days.
Help them discover the pleasures that no screen can provide. Let them know the companionship of books, the joy of nature, the discipline of sustained effort, and the satisfaction of mastering a skill.
Most importantly, teach them the value of silence.
Introduce them to prayer, not as ritual alone but as gratitude. Introduce them to meditation, not as technique alone but as friendship with oneself. The world will teach them how to make a living; help them learn how to live.
For these are the foundations upon which character is built.
As I remember my father this Father’s Day, I realise that fatherhood resembles the planting of trees. The planter seldom enjoys the fullest shade. That privilege belongs to later generations.
Babuji planted. I tried, imperfectly, to tend. My sons must now continue the work.
And if, years from now, their children remember them with even a fraction of the gratitude with which I remember my father today, they will have succeeded beyond measure.
For that, ultimately, is the thread that runs through us—not blood alone, but love expressed through example, strengthened by patience, and carried forward through generations.

(Uday Kumar Varma is an IAS officer. Retired as Secretary, Ministry of Information & Broadcasting)