My Father's Daughter

The indigo glare from the TV filled the room as the opening credits to The Gary Shandling Show came on. I must have been six or seven then and felt especially precocious since I understood all the adult jokes.

“Can I stay up for Arsenio?”

“Kanika, you have school tomorrow.” I heard my mom project her voice from her room through the hallway.

“Can I?” I turned to Papa. “Okay beta ji (my child), but make sure you wake up.”

But like every time, I only got through Arsenio’s fist-pumping entrance and fell asleep shortly after.

My papa and I didn’t spend too much time together in front of the “idiot box,” save for his select late night shows and tennis matches on the weekends. Those he marked in the TV Guide with a red felt-tip pen at the beginning of each week.

I didn’t pay much attention to the matches or players, but I knew Boris Becker was his favorite. I couldn’t understand how a game with a ball being whacked across a court for three hours at a stretch could be so gripping. But I did find it amusing that “love” was actually a score.

One afternoon when he was especially engrossed in a match, probably the U.S. Open or Wimbledon, I balanced myself on top of the couch against the wall and began styling his hair. With my hair clips labeled with the days of the week (“Sunday,” “Monday,” “Tuesday,” and so on) in hand, I made a collage out of his raven hair and fashioned a ponytail fountain atop his head.

Pleased with my work, I yelled for my mom to come upstairs from the kitchen. My mom hurriedly climbed up the steps to see what the problem was and the minute she saw my dad staring at the TV with such intent, days-of-the-week clips in his hair and all, she let out a big laugh.

“Khemi, just look in the mirror,” she said in between guffaws.

At first he was annoyed, furling his brows and saying, “Can’t you see my match is going on!” But once he stood up to take a look at himself in the mirror, he couldn’t help but laugh at his reflection. The fountain ponytail provided just the right amount of comic relief to turn his frown into a smile.

Certain weekends with my papa were especially memorable, like his office picnic and party weekends. At the monthly office picnics, I got a chance to meet the receptionist, his Indian boss, and all his colleagues—and, of course, all their kids. Though I never quite understood what my dad did all day, I knew he worked with computers and was always bringing home a new book thick as a dictionary about C ++, MS-DOS or UNIX.

At the picnics, I usually played with the girls my age. We’d go swimming, get our faces painted, play in the moonbounce, and eat enough hot dogs and cotton candy to make us sick. I always had a great time with them even though our encounters were limited to those picnics.

The office parties were a stark contrast to the picnics. Any normal child would’ve found those black and white tie affairs with a spread of hors d’oeuvres, fruits, ice sculptures and a live band boring. I, however, loved them. I usually wore a black or maroon dress my mom picked out, my hair gathered in a high side ponytail, white tights that were really itchy, black patent leather Mary Janes and a black shoulder strap purse to match.

After eating my fill of pâté and crackers, cheese and grapes and my allowance of sips of wine, I’d sit at the table on my mom’s lap waiting for a song I recognized. I liked Neil Diamond, Simon and Garfunkel’s “Mrs. Robinson” and all the salsa tracks. When the band began playing peppier numbers back to back, my papa would take my little hand in his and lead me to the dance floor.

Kanika Chadda

“Okay, remember what I taught you last time? This is the Cha Cha. So we’re going to rock step, triple step, and cha cha cha.”

Feeling overwhelmed by the instructions, I’d let out a big sigh, blowing the hair on my forehead in the air.

“Yeah, I think I remember. But can we go through it slowly first?”

So we’d start in slow-mo, and after a few moments to feel out the music and gain my sense of rhythm, I was on a roll. He’d spin me around, and we’d exchange places and cha-cha our way across the dance floor. So many couples stopped dead in their tracks to watch me dance with my tall, dashing dad. And we made sure to vary our choreography from the foxtrot to the waltz to the rumba. And as announcements were made for dinner or for the raffle winner to collect his grand prize trip for two to Hawaii, we’d be the lone dancers on the floor.

On some weekends, my dad would stay in to clean his rifles. Yes, rifles. He had an antique collection of rifles and handguns, and they’re still in pristine condition today. He was very particular about keeping them clean. He’d cover his bed with newspaper and gingerly place each of his firearm heirlooms in a row. Then, one by one, he’d clean out the muzzles with plastic rods and burnish the outsides with a felt cloth and shining polish.

“You know your great-great grandfather used to hunt tigers and bears in India,” he’d tell me.

“Yeah. I know. You’ve told me before.”

“And your grandfather used to take me hunting. During British rule in India, they used to hunt for sport. We’re Khatri. That’s Punjabi for the warrior caste. It’s in our blood.”

Though I was an animal lover at heart and don’t condone hunting, I could somehow understand the valor and pride for our family to be a part of the majestic warrior caste.

One lazy Saturday evening, my dad was flipping through his Beretta magazine, dog-earring the pages of the evergreen-colored hunting vests that struck his fancy. Then he pulled out a Shooting Sportsman magazine and pointed out a lady on the second page, wearing yellow goggles, aiming a handgun at a target.

“See that. That’s a woman shooting. And she looks so happy. Target shooting is also a woman’s sport. You should know how to operate a gun. Tomorrow morning, be up by six. We’re going to a shooting range.”

“What? I don’t know how to shoot. I don’t want to go.”

“So you’re going to learn. Six-o-clock sharp,” he flashed me a stern look that made me leave in a huff and retire to my room.

The next morning was a blur. We got in his blue and white-topped Chevrolet and were on our way to a shooting range an hour and a half away. We were welcomed by an instructor and a group of father-son duos. I felt incredibly out of place. Just picture a frail 12-year-old South Asian girl amongst a group of tough-looking fifteen and sixteen year-olds. They had to have thought we were Mexican.

The instructor corralled the kids into a corner while the dads went to open grounds to target and skeet shoot. He put up targets shaped like rabbits a few meters away from us and had us lie on our stomachs on the ground with rifles in hand. He gave us the sound off: “3…2…1…Fire!” Utterly clueless, I just kept the gun steady and shot. My first few shots didn’t even hit the target. The instructor came over to me and advised me to look straight down the barrel, line up the spokes to form a “V,” position it under the bulls-eye and fire. After the pep talk, I nicked the rabbit’s ear, hind leg, and my last shot hit his mid-section head-on. I was so proud of that piece of paper with holes in it. I couldn’t wait to show my mom once I got home.

There were a few other father-daughter moments that remain etched in my memory: Running down the steps when he came home from work because he’d always bring home a Symphony or Alpine White chocolate bar for me; taking Kung-Fu classes together; working on my French take-home tests. He’d say, “We have a Larousse dictionary at home. Look up what you can. If you’re still having trouble, then come to me.”

During my teen years, our bonding experiences grew fewer and farther between. But looking back, I am pleasantly surprised that circumstances have come full circle. As much as I convinced myself of our differences, subtleties of his character kept creeping up in me. I appreciate when a chef takes the time to prepare an elaborate presentation for a dish. I ended up joining the varsity tennis team in high school. I am choosy about my wines and never thought to resort to boxed varieties like other college kids. I won’t feel shocked by the recoil if I have to shoot a handgun. I journeyed to Paris and was glad I could communicate with bus drivers and the hotel bellhop and could read and understand the caption under La Jaconde or The Mona Lisa at the Louvre. I get wide-eyed when I watch exceptional ballroom on TV. Much like the young girl who stayed up way past her bed time to watch the last bit of Arsenio or repeat the “Heeeeeeeere’s Johnny!” intro to The Johnny Carson Show, I suppose I am, have always been, and always will be my father’s daughter.

Kanika Chadda is a broadcast journalist with CNN-IBN (CNN's sister station in India) and is currently based in Mumbai. She was born in Mumbai and grew up in Gaithersburg, Maryland. In the past five years, she has lived in four different cities: Boston, Washington D.C., Miami and Mumbai. Chadda's family resides in Maryland and unfortunately she'll be in India on her father's birthday on July 2nd. To learn more about her and view her work, log on to www.kanikachadda.com.