His Voice My Legacy

I was still learning to walk

when I had to leave

my mother's lap

for my little brother.

 

I looked up pitifully at my father.

“Walk,” he said.

“No!” I stubbornly replied.

“You carry me.

My legs are hurting.

Why is brother in Amma's arms?

I need a hug, too!”

 

I cried, threw fits,

I raged in little meltdowns.

But through every protest, every plea,

my father's voice would interrupt.

“You are the elder one.

You must take care of the family.

You must grow up tough.”

 

Say that to a child of one and a half!

Amma could not voice her protest;

she had my brother to hold.

 

So, holding on to

my father's index finger,

I began to walk –

my first little steps

towards responsibility.

The stretches we had to walk

seemed endless to my aching little feet.

But at each stumbling stride,

I heard his voice beside me, to guide.

 

I was afraid of the dark,

but my father led me

through its blinding depths

whenever we visited his home.

Our hometown then—

a place so remote,

with scarcely a streetlight in sight,

and those that stood along the way

had bulbs that seldom glowed.

 

Those haunting noises

and shadows that moved –

felt strange in frightening ways.

While I prayed for the next light

to appear soon

as we passed the one before it.

 

And through it all,

I held on to my father's finger,

while his voice

led me through the dark.

“Our house isn't far.

Just a few more steps,

and we'll be home.”

 

His voice became my anchor,

my strength when courage was thin;

he pushed me towards my fears,

teaching me how to win.

 

I was barely tall to reach

the handle of his Hero cycle

when he pulled it off its stand.

“Hold it and walk,” he said.

I was terrified,

yet thrilled to conquer my fear.

I fell, but tried again.

He showed me how to place my leg,

walk with the cycle,

one small step at a time.

 

Then, he taught me to pedal.

I slipped one leg through the frame

and gave riding a try.

I fell, but learnt to steady myself;

I stumbled, but learnt to rise.

 

And then the Bajaj Chetak,

his beloved scooter, his pride.

It was Vijayadashami,

a day of blessings for every new start.

Vehicles rolled over lemons after puja,

with prayers and faith in every heart.

 

My father rode up to me,

then moved to the pillion seat.

“You have watched me ride.

You know the clutch, the gears,

the brakes and the accelerator.

Now start the scooter

and take me for a ride.”

 

I stared at him in disbelief.

Was he serious?

But his voice, his faith in me

became a challenge

to try and never retreat.

 

At the beginning of my fourth grade,

my brothers and I joined a school

far away from home.

There was no school bus,

just the public transport –

sometimes one, sometimes two –

and the buses were mostly crowded.

 

One day came my father's command:

“You must take your brothers

safely to school and back.

I have my office to attend,

and your mother has the household to manage.

I'll show you the way today.

From tomorrow, it is all you.”

 

I was shocked.

How do I do this?

Could I really shoulder this task?

Yet beneath the fear,

my pride began to grow.

He entrusted me with my brothers

because he believed I could.

 

Years later, I learnt the truth:

for a week, he had followed us

on his scooter, keeping watch,

making sure we were safe.

Though he had trusted me with the journey,

he had never stopped being a father.

Behind the lessons he taught me

was a heart that worried for his little girl.

 

Stage fright was my ultimate nemesis.

Sometimes I excelled,

sometimes I stumbled.

My father's response

 was always the same:

“Do better next time” –

a reminder that tomorrow

will offer another chance to perform.

 

And while I performed,

he would slip outside the venue.

Perhaps he knew that failing before him

was the worst fear I dreaded to confront.

 

Today, I look back

at the little girl I used to be –

the one who wanted to be carried,

the one afraid of the dark,

the one who fell from cycles,

the one who trembled on a stage.

 

I see how his every command

was a lesson,

every challenge a chance to excel,

every fall a reason

to rise and try again.

 

His voice was never just a voice.

It was a force that shaped my being,

a belief that fuelled my dreams,

a presence that guides me still.

 

© Anjana Premkumar 2026