When No One's Asking; When No One's Looking.

To my Appa.

My Appa moves through life with a quiet grace, yet there’s a weight to his steps—an unseen tether to the opinions of others. He chooses his shirts and pants not for how they feel, but for how they might be perceived. I wish I could tell him, Look in the mirror.

Do you like what you see? That is enough.

Comfort should matter more than approval, but he’s built his life around being presentable to the world. It’s a lesson I try to whisper to him in small ways, though it feels like the message doesn’t quite land.

There’s so much about him I don’t understand. He’s a man of stories untold, his childhood a mystery to me. I imagine it was a time when there were no words for things like mental health or quiet despair. I wonder what shaped him—the harsh words he might have heard, the struggles he bore alone. Maybe that’s why he holds on so tightly to the image he presents.

What he calls embarrassment, I call being human.

But we see the world differently; I hold few people close, while he wants to everyone to be in harmony.

He works harder than anyone I know—so much that he doesn’t even see it. He tells me about smart work, but his hands tell a different story, one of endless effort and resilience. I’ve heard his tales of career triumphs a hundred times, yet they never lose their spark. There’s pride in his voice when he speaks of solving impossible problems, and I could listen forever. This is who you are, Dad. This is your brilliance.

But he assumes too much about what’s in my heart. He doesn’t always see the love I try to show him—in my questions, my hugs, the way I notice when he’s carrying too much. Sometimes my care is met with frustration; sometimes it lands as an attack. I don’t know if he feels how deeply I care. I wish he could see it, just once, the way I feel it every day.

There’s a tension between us, a push and pull. He’s said things that hurt, words that linger even now. And yet, my love for him endures, tangled with the pain. It’s a bond I could never sever, no matter how imperfect. I wouldn’t forgive him, but I’d still make him samosas, still massage his head after a long day.
Because he’s my Appa, and that’s what love looks like for us.
-a love that isn’t simple or easy, but it’s ours.

He looks at me and my sister with the heart of a father, always measuring us against his dreams and worries. Sometimes, I think he doesn’t see who we’ve become—how strong, how resilient we are. He wonders how we turned out so different, but I wish he’d see it the way I do: two daughters shaped by his care, struggles, his unwavering love.

If he could step back, if he could look at us not as his children but as people, I think he’d be proud. We’re not perfect, but we’re here, and we’re a reflection of him in more ways than he knows even the parts that he doesn't approve of.

So today, on his birthday, I just want to say-
Appa, you mean more to me than words could ever hold. I may not always say it, but I hope you feel it in all the little things I do. You are my strength, my teacher, my hero in ways you don’t realize. And I hope this year brings you all the joy you deserve. Happy Birthday, Appa.