A Superhero Without a Cape: My Father

When we think of superheroes, our minds often drift to the ones in comic books, flying across the sky, saving lives, fighting villains. But my superhero never wore a cape. He wore a simple kurta or shirt, sometimes crumpled from a long day’s work, and the quiet confidence of a man who carried his entire world on his shoulders without ever asking for applause.

My earliest memories of my father aren’t filled with dramatic declarations, they’re full of everyday moments soaked in silent strength. They’re full of chai, shared during early mornings, the faint sound of his bicycle bell outside the gate, and the comforting rustle of the newspaper in his hands.

I’ve seen him pedal that old bicycle with me tightly clutching onto the back seat, no helmet, no worries, just trust, a freedom I have never felt before. I’ve seen him come home carrying bags heavy with vegetables, from the sabzi mandi, in those bags, I eagerly waited for some surprize for me, a toffee, my favourite fruit, samosey or sweets, he somehow knew how to strike the chord.

He made space in tight budgets without letting it show, cutting down on his new shoes, choosing a simpler shirt, just so we could go for that school picnic or get a new dress for the festival. His dreams were often sacrificed in silence.

And oh, how he carried his love like a shadow, always present, never overbearing.

A father is a daughter’s first love. Mine watched over me like a quiet guardian. I remember how his eyes would follow me at family weddings or in the gali (street) outside our home, half protective, half proud. If he saw a boy talking to me, his glance would sharpen, not with anger, but with the unspoken worry of a father whose whole world walked around in a ponytail and school shoes.

I remember him teaching me how to ride a bicycle, his hand steady on the seat, his voice calm, saying, “Darr mat, main yahin hoon.” The moment I found my balance, he let go without a word. That day, he didn’t just teach me how to ride,he taught me how to trust myself, even when I couldn’t see him behind me.

When the world questioned my decisions, when relatives judged, when marks fell short, or life didn’t go as planned, he was the only one who stood by me. No grand speeches, just a simple hand on my shoulder and a sentence I still carry: “Mujhe bharosa hai tujh par.”

He never asked for anything, but always waited for something so small, like Sunday lunch. I can still see him sitting cross, legged on the floor, waiting for dal chawal or rajma, not with impatience, but with that childlike happiness only home, cooked food brings. It was never about the food; it was about all of us being together.

He’s the man who used to laugh the loudest at silly jokes on Doordarshan, save Amul chocolate wrappers to gift us one more, who secretly cried when I moved to another city, and who stood near the gate long after I left, pretending to check the weather.

He once stood tall, handsome, strong, and full of dreams. Today, time has softened him. His back bends a little. His hair has thinned. His glasses slip down his nose. But his spirit? That’s still the same. Unshaken. Loving. Whole.

And some days, I close my eyes and wish I could go back, just for a day, to see that young, vibrant man again. To give him all the things he gave up for us. To say, “It’s your turn to rest, Papa. Let me carry the load now.”

But maybe that’s the truth about our fathers, their sacrifices aren’t meant to be repaid. They’re meant to be honoured, lived through, and passed forward.

So here’s to my father:
My superhero.
My first love.
My guardian.
My guide.
My teacher of quiet strength.

You didn’t wear a cape, but you gave me wings.
You didn’t speak much, but you taught me everything.
And I will spend my life trying to be even half the person you were to us.

"Like salt, a father may not always be visible, but he’s essential to life."

This blog draws its inspiration from cherished real-life memories, moments shared by my wife and close friends. - Thank you.