We held our hands everywhere, barely being able to grab those cracked, masculine, hands as his strides were far too big for a little girl like me. But I refused to let this pinky go, as those hands tell stories. His overworked hands, every scar, every scratch; I would ask him how he got those and he seemed to tell me the same answer every time. “Working hard to provide for you, my child.” 

My father, an immigrant from India, trying to do what most strive to do when they move to such an unfamiliar country like Canada, aiming for a better life for him and his family. As I wrap my delicate hand around his pinky figure, I remember the stories he would tell me from his past. “Dad, what was school like for you?” asked my younger self, curious to find differences between our education systems. Instead, I got a moment, a moment where my father was able to travel back in time and reminisce on his life. 

He sat me down and told me what his life was like in the late 1900’s, Indian. He worked tremendously hard to be at the top of his class, achieving countless rewards, scholarships, and opportunities. My father attended a university in India, to become a doctor, as he certainly had the work ethic to achieve it. Never taking a break, he would tell me that he would start studying for his classes during the summer so that he could be successful in them in the following school year. He continued to work hard but was faced with a reality that soon came into his life. He explained that back then individuals were married off at a younger age and as he was growing up, his persistent sister told him to get married. Finally, after much consideration, he followed the path his family wanted him to. His perspective changed, he didn’t believe this to be a negative situation in his life, he now saw it as an opportunity to become a better person and provide for his wife and future family. Leaving everything behind, he left for Canada, knowing that was how he would attain these goals. He was separated from his wife, my mother, for a year working hard to get money so that he could buy my mother a house before she came and joined him. This was the most he would ever tell me, never going into specific details about his life here. I think I was aware that my father was hiding stuff due to whenever I would ask him for more of the story, he would tell me there was nothing more and to go play. Yet I had a feeling that there was a lot more missing from his story. 

My father, a humble man, never spoke of him coming to Canada in great detail. Me, still being interested about it all, caused me to ask my older cousins that lived with him when he came here. They told me that he would work night shifts at a convenience store and come home during the early hours of the morning. He tried to get a job with his previous schooling, but due to our government not accepting all of his achievements, he had to settle with what he could get. His commute to work was always long, about an hour and a half on the bus, and my exhausted father would fall asleep after work, sometimes even missing his stop. He would continue to ride the bus until the driver would remind him to wake up. After that, he would help my uncle with anything and everything he needed as my father was known to be the most knowledgeable out of all my other family members. Then after a long day, he would sleep for a couple of hours, repeating that cycle for more than a year. As my cousins told me what he truly went through, a tear fell down my cheek. Imagining my father doing all of that was almost unbearable. I couldn’t believe the measures he would take to provide for us.

As I look back and see what my father had been through just to provide for my siblings and me, it caused me to feel indebted. The countless acts of sacrifice he committed to allow us to be in the position we are today truly amazed me. He would tell me some of his stories while I held his pinky finger and it wasn’t until I was older where I realized he was trying to express something with that. He was trying to express that he would always be my support system. My father is the one I go to when I have to talk about school or something personal and without a doubt I know he’s always going to help me when I need him to. He invested so much time providing for me when I wasn’t even alive and to this day, continues to do the same. I pray to God that someday I can be successful enough to give back to my father, the same way he did for me. With this, I hope that when he gets older he will hold my pinky finger so that I can be known as his support system.

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