The place where I grew up, a place where I held my dad’s finger, and we would go about walking the busy markets. I would absorb the sights and the sound, while people would almost give him a salute.

I asked Dad, why do they salute you, he would say, some people think he is in the police. Dad was broad built and well over 6 feet tall, so I didn’t find that hard to believe then.

I loved the fact that he would get so much respect on the streets, and looking back at my life now when I walk the streets, people must be thinking what a loser this guy is? I mean these people don’t even know me. However, I don’t have that charismatic commanding presence which demands awe.

Goregaon, I was there today, had some work. After work, I reached the station on the west side, the memory of dad and me walking came back, I am holding his hand, I, being so much tired to climb those stairs to the bridge, and I would tell him, I am tired. Nevertheless, he kept walking, and I tried to pace up.

We did most of our shopping on the East side, like the fish and the vegetables. However, our lady doctor was on the west side. I wanted to find the doctor; I walked there, but seems there is now a tall building, couldn’t find her clinic.

Goregaon has changed and those sheltered days of holding my dads hand and walking will never come back. My heart was heavy at the loss of this larger than life person (Dad) , maybe if I had got mother’s love; I wouldn’t have made my Dad into so much of a hero. However, dad has to bear the brunt of hero worship, cause, there wasn’t any mother figure to hero worship or hold my hand and walk me around.

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