'Dad, don't give me money!'- this is probably the word uttered most times in life. Sometimes to buy school books, sometimes to have tea with friends, sometimes for no real reason. I used to go to Baba on every pretext and reason. There was a little shame in my heart, sometimes I even laughed at myself. But I would not stop saying, 'Dad, don't give me money!'

Baba always used to call me and my brother as 'Ae Sun Ta...' . He called me by name and I don't even remember. But in the voice of saying 'Hey listen...' there was such a sense of belonging, which could hardly be found in any words . Sometimes it seems like, maybe I find my identity in that address more than in the name .

I am the son of a middle class family of Jhapa Bhadrapur. Mami takes care of our house . Baba used to work in Rashtra Bank (now he has retired) . The house was run on my father's earnings, education was done, we grew up like that .

I went to Kathmandu to study in 2058. That's when I boarded the ship for the first time . On the ship, Baba pointed out many places from the window.

I will never forget the year I came to Kathmandu.

because the same year the king's family was killed in the palace. That morning I was fast asleep at home in Bhadrapur. Sister said 'Oh brother! You know... kings and queens were killed.' I can only imagine how serious that news must have been for my 7th grade student.

'Dad, don't give me money!' It was like Thego for me . Sometimes I made false excuses and said, 'Dad, don't give me money!' 

Sometimes I was shy, 'how much money to ask?' but I never showed the courage to ask . Now I am able to earn by myself. But sometimes money runs out . The bank balance is cleared . There is no habit of saving much. Sometimes I think, what did Baba really think at that time? It would have been difficult for him too, he might not have had any money. Ditto Ditto . Baba didn't know that I ate coke in Tiffin, went to see a movie with my friend, bunked in college, didn't he know? Maybe he would have known. I used to think from time to time, 'Why am I really asking for money .' But he never asked - 'Why ? how much ? ever money ?'

Sometimes you think, 'Did he really not understand ? Did he not know that I made many excuses and asked for money.' Today I started to understand, he knew everything . That knowing was a kind of love—a silent love, an unspoken trust.

I grew up asking for money under many pretexts. I completed my graduation from a college in Kathmandu. I came to India to study Masters. Education there was not cheap. Daily expenses, hostel, books - everything cost money. There may have been some scholarship, but the main amount came from Baba's pocket money. But I didn't see the burden on his face. 

Sometimes I was ashamed, how much money to ask . But she never dared to ask. 

Now I am able to earn by myself . But sometimes money runs out . The bank balance is cleared . There is no habit of saving much. Sometimes I think, 'Really, what was Baba thinking at that time? It would have been difficult for him too, he might not have had any money.' Ditto ditto . 

But why did he never say 'no'? Perhaps, to him I was bigger than money . Perhaps, I would have been happy for him . Perhaps, becoming that 'father' was also a dream for him.

I'll be back again and again . I am remembered as 'I am a father raising a daughter'. My little daughter has not learned to say, 'Dad, don't give money'. 

But I fear – that day will come. And one day she will say with bright eyes and soft voice, 'Dad, don't give me money.' 

What will I do that day? I might hug him, laugh and ask him, or say, 'Why do you want some money ?' Sometimes I think involuntarily, 'Can I be like my father?'

Calm, serious, patient - always giving, without saying anything, without showing anything ?

'Will I be a different kind of father?' A little more protective, more understanding, or able to say 'no' sometimes? And the deepest fear is when my daughter is asking for money and I don't have money. 

Can I bear that sweet and disappointed look of my daughter ?

Maybe then I will laugh and say, 'Daughter, not today... but tomorrow for sure .' Having said this, I will hold her little finger and say, 'Promise daughter . Tomorrow for sure.' 

Maybe I should start teaching him the value of things that are more important than money . And perhaps, remembering my father inside, remembering his silent love - I smile.

Because that day, I became a child once again… the son of a father, and the father of a daughter.

Today I remember my own father . He is still living the same simple life . But I'm not like that. You cannot become a father only by earning money. That can only be done with generosity of heart. 

One day I thought, 'Would I be able to speak the same way if I were abroad ?' Another day I thought, 'If I were America or Australia or any other country....  Could I have asked father for money that easily?' Maybe I couldn't. If that courage does not come, that distance will increase, that 'culture' may have changed.