Many of us begin objectively thinking about fathers only as ageing daughters and after they are long gone. What propels it? What is the first question that springs to mind ?Why did we take fathers as respected patriarchs of families, not as human beings we could argue, laugh and quarrel with? Why could we not have the same easy friendship with fathers as we did with mothers? Why did we take maternal love as a given, but the father remained the measure of all things heroic and vast, even after we married and left our natal families?Montaigne argues flatly that there can be no friendship between children and fathers, period. The reason is lack of easy communication. Friendship, he argues, feeds on communication, which is mostly non-existent between fathers and children due to “their too great inequality,” of power to be the source of only stern admonitions and corrections periodically. The enormous clout handed them by society guarantees those expectant silences between father and child. So traditional fatherhood, as our generation of midnight’s children came to know of it, blocked two-way communication between grown up children and fathers. With sons there may be moments of semi-equal bantering but not with pubescent daughters.Did we resent this? To be honest, as daughters we were brought up to believe that our mothers’ love based on easy camaraderie was enough for us. If needed she could be our bridge to father and carry back his views to us, in our case stamped with her own brackish sense of humour. “Bharat Bhagya Vidhata”, our mother called Babu, our father. She had accepted the fact, but just about. We were expected to be mature enough to continue to accept him as a heroic figure, and the provider of safety, security, and sobering advice. When we were married to men from reputed, well spoken-off clans, I now see, we only swapped one father figure for another.My father passed away at a young age of 58. My father-in-law, whom we addressed as Babba, lived to a ripe old age. Like Babu he stood over his family like a gigantic banyan tree.But now that I am old and past gender-imposed thought barriers, I frequently find myself remembering not things that were, but the things that were not, the words left unsaid, the stories not shared, the vast territories of learning they wished to cover but could not because they were providers – our past as children, their own childhoods. I was far away in Washington when Babu passed away. When I last saw him he was already a very sick man but no one knew exactly how sick. He, as usual, kept it to himself, stoically bearing the pain. He spoke to me quietly and simply, gentle and courteous as ever with his familiar faintly abstracted air. He was so happy, he said that he had married off all three of his daughters to good men from good families. We would be well cared for always and we must take care of our families till the end, he said. He was only worried about my brother, then a young student at the IIT. “Tell him to go to your father-in-law before taking a decision about his further studies, and do as he says,” he said. Babba, my father-in-law who alone knew his childhood friend was dying, did not let his friend down and remained a great mentor to my brother after he graduated, as Babu had ordained. He helped him opt for marketing training instead of going to IIM Ahmedabad, when the legendary Runu Sen talent-spotted him and made an offer for a major multinational company. Mother was a little worried but upon hearing Babba had agreed to the choice, accepted it with no further argument.Both my father and father-in-law grew up and went to the government school in Almora and were life-long friends. Both had lost their mothers when very young and were brought up by indulgent but strict fathers who drilled into them great self discipline, a penchant for sparse living and reverence for learning of any kind. Their childhood – bereft of mothers or playful sisters by their side – lent their attitude towards women who entered their lives later as wives a certain shyness and reserve, laced with great kindness of course. One thing both fathers shared was a spirit of renunciation and self denial. A spring and the adjacent land that my father-in-law inherited was donated by him to the town of Almora where he was born and came back to after retirement until he breathed his last. This he explained to us , was because various local rituals for ancestors needed to be performed along a body of flowing water, and he thought if the spring and the slopes around became public property, the folks in the area would be rid of the tedium of long treks to the river and back. “After this I shall own no land nor assets other than this house that I live in, and that is how it should be,” he had said.My father laughed when my mother suggested buying property in Bhowali that was going cheap. “Fools build houses for wise men to rent them,” he said. Babba’s simple and austere Pahadi relatives who came down periodically from the hills for a visit were alien to Lutyen’s Delhi then ruled by the privileged band of ICS officers to which Babba belonged. For them, Babba’s house at 3 Tughlaq Road remained “Bhairab’s house” – a safe and soothing platform to meet, talk and stay in as long as needed. After he retired, Babba returned to his roots and soon both he and his gentle, self-effacing wife meshed with the local people with ease. Our visits pleased Babba, especially those with his grandchildren and later, the great grandchildren. Their voices as they played in the vast stone courtyard, he said, were to him the messengers of both life and mortality. “Give me your hands,” he would say to them when they approached him. He stroked their palms and faces gently, absently, as if re-reading a long forgotten poem. Fathers like Babu and Babba, I can now see, did not want our pity or sorrow, only love. Even as they faded visibly and finally took to bed saying they were just tired, we dared not ask them: “Would you like to be examined by a specialist ? Would you like some hot milk with protein, maybe?”In our hearts we all knew by then that such questions were entirely besides the point.Babu cast off his old ancestral house in Almora my grandfather left for him, telling my mother that he is an ascetic at heart and that this will tie him down. Someone says someone forged papers and sold it. My brother let it be. Babba’s house in Champa Naula appeared frail and small with each visit. Now that they have both been gone, today the only negotiable road for the elderly stands encroached upon by stray dogs and heaps of plastic. A new Almora towers around it, all aglitter with tri-coloured fairy bulbs and garishly painted old temples – loud and unbearably uncouth. By deed it may not belong to us but for all of us it will forever remain a house in our thoughts. Somewhere within may lie the neatly arranged old fading albums with family portraits that one can only now look at with more gratitude than sentimental nostalgia. That is it, our fathers told us without putting it in words: we come, we leave and life moves on. Saakhi is a Sunday column from Mrinal Pande, in which she writes of what she sees and also participates in. That has been her burden to bear ever since she embarked on a life as a journalist, writer, editor, author and as chairperson of Prasar Bharti. Her journey of being a witness-participant continues.