"Hrmph!"

Nagamaki, Nodachi, Ōtachi, Ōkatana, Chokutō, Dōtanuki, Katana, Ninjatō, Shin guntō, Tachi, Tsurugi, Uchigatana, Chisakatana, Kodachi, Shikomizue, Wakizashi, Hachiwara, Tantō, Yoroi tōshi, Bokken, Iaitō, Shinai, Suburitō, Tanren bō, Daikatana, Zanbatō, Naginata, Yari
These are the different types of Japanese swords. They are large, long, short, practice, fictional swords and knives / daggers. Japanese swords have always interested me in some way. As a kid, I used to blow up my G. I. Joe’s with Sivakasi fireworks claiming to be the Samurai. I must admit here that I enjoyed that phase of life. In fact, all single offspring are off and spring. They have a compulsive disorder of trying to imagine their own free world, which is not at all like the one you saw in Taare Zameen Par (nice movie though). I wrote my first suicide letter at the age of six. The contents ran thus:
Dear Nanna / Appa and Amma,
I am committing suicide because you have not bought me (some G. I. Joe whose name, my dear, I cannot remember for nuts right now. Or He – Man, I really don’t remember, but the manufacturer in both cases was Leo – Mattel Inc.)
Yours lovingly,
Me.
Unfortunately or otherwise, I had the immediate urgency to go outside and play ring – wrong (a game played with gotis (marbles – you dirty mind (If, in case you don’t know about this, then you’ve not set your priorities right (why are so many brackets here? (Wow, is this a roll or what? (What the fuck?)))))). So, anyway, I had to leave on an urgent mission to play my last ring – wrong game on earth (The Finals). When I returned, both my parents were at home and the suicide note was found and there was no suicide. My dad smirked, said his usual “Hrmph!” which was basically Morse code for “The most useless fellow on this planet (including all other parallel universes.)” Every son has this code with his dad. There is something special about a dad – son relationship. Like this once, I was running temperature, I was lying down and my dad, after finishing the customary “Hrmph!” asked me:
Dad: Why are you lying down?
Me: I’m running temperature… (I was 6.)
Dad: What?
Me: I’ve got fever.
Dad: Precisely my point.
Me: What?
Dad: My Dear Son (Morse code for something unprintable), you are expressing the wrong feeling.
Me: (Fuck my feelings dad, my balls on the ceiling…what the fuck am I supposed to say when I have fever? Scienti – fucking name of fever??!!) Hmmm…..
Dad: Son, you should never say you have fever. Always say the fever has you.
Me: Ok Appa.
I will never really understand the what, why, when, where, how questions about the relationship that I have with my dad…None of us do, in fact. But what I do understand and realize, after all these years, is that stoic face always looking down at me and cracking stupid jokes. Like He thought it was a pretty neat dress when the hospital apron was put on me, he thought it was really cool that I could buy and drive my own bullet (he was apprehensive that my feet wouldn’t reach the ground). The truth is dad, I really love you. And musing over the fact that you haven’t killed me yet, you love me too. I’ve seen the ups and downs in your life (because of me or otherwise), and you’ve seen me from waist sizes 8 to 38. You were amazed the first time when I said Backau Wolf in a Donald Duck kind of voice because you saw some prospects of me becoming a corporate biggie or a mimicry artiste. I was amazed that you thought so. You’ve written some intelligent things like, “God give me patience, but hurry please!” in your notes (yeah, been reading them). I even remember playing “oh, daddy” by Fleetwood Mac on your birthday and you thought that was waste of electricity. To the man who introduced me to the guitar, the mandolin, the bulbul, Dire straits, British comedy, Action shoes, Reebok, tube chewing gum, space pen, currency and flight passes from every single country all over the earth, scotch, car driving, cigars, animals, nature, highway travel, etc. This is my ode to you dad. Miss your “Hrmph!” these days.