Ordinary Man, Extraordinary Love

 

Some memories appear very simple, yet deeply personal, the kind that quietly shape who we become. Such memories do not fade with time. They sit quietly in a corner of the heart, polished by gratitude, glowing brighter as the years pass.

When I think of my Appa, my mind goes back to a Saturday afternoon in 1994 at Sathyam Cinemas, then he took me for what I now realize was my very first movie date, an experience he planned with more intention than I understood at four years old.

To the world, it may have been an ordinary outing. To me, it was magic.

Every Saturday, Amma would get me a simple new dress. Not designer outfits, but just enough to make me feel special. I would proudly wear it wherever Appa took me, from swimming class to the movies. Since she worked on Saturdays, those afternoons quietly became our special “Appa and ME” time.

Back then (even now for many), Sathyam Cinemas was not just a theatre in Chennai . It was an experience. It felt grand, almost intimidating. The plush seats, cold air-conditioning that made you hug yourself, the smell of popcorn floating in the air. For a middle-class working man carefully balancing monthly expenses until the next paycheck, tickets there , were not casual purchases. They were planned. Budgeted. Chosen to SACRIFICE over something else.

Today, I understand what that meant.

The movie was Baby's Day Out. Until that day, I didn’t even know movies could be watched in a theatre. English, to me, was something from school books and rhymes, and from the Nuns in my convent school speaking in measured tones across the campus corridors that always felt slightly grand and unfamiliar to my younger self.

And then, that very same language, appeared in its grandest form on a massive screen. It was loud, bright, dramatic, echoing through giant speakers.

Did I understand the dialogues? Absolutely not. Did I follow the plot? Not at all.

All I remember is the adorable baby crawling, tumbling, outsmarting grown-ups and maneuvering across the giant screen. I probably laughed at moments that weren’t meant to be funny and stayed silent at parts the audience roared at. But none of that mattered.

What mattered was that my father wanted me to have that experience.

He wanted his little girl to sit in a theater and watch an English film. He wanted me to feel that nothing was out of reach. For a typical middle-class father of the 90s, that was no small gesture. Luxury wasn’t loud in our home. It was subtle. It came wrapped in intention.

Looking back now, I realize this was never about the movie.

It was about exposure.
It was about aspiration.
It was about planting quiet seeds.

My parents, who did not have access to elite schools in their childhood, carried a silent ambition for me. They invested my education in a school system where English was not just a subject; it was a lifestyle choice for fourteen straight years. A skill they believed would open doors they themselves had to knock harder on. That Saturday afternoon at Sathyam was an extension of that vision.

My dad could have easily spent that Saturday napping after a long, tiring week of work. The 90s didn’t come with work-from-home flexibility. Saturdays were precious recovery time. Yet, instead of resting, he chose to dress up, hold my hand, and step into a world that probably cost him more than just the ticket price.

Because love sometimes looks like exhaustion overridden by intention.

Appa. He was/is my patient escort, my financier, my bodyguard, and my biggest fan all rolled into one.

There was something about the way he made those afternoons feel intentional. He never rushed them. He never made me feel like it was an obligation.

It felt like “ I “ was the highlight of his weekend.

Today (19 Feb 2026) as he turns 75, that memory feels heavier. Not with sadness, but with reverence.

I understand that the ticket price of that movie may have meant giving up something else that month.

I understand that choosing to spend a Saturday afternoon out instead of resting required energy he didn’t always have.

I understand that good education, swimming classes, weekend outings and new dresses were not coincidences, they were “deliberate decisions”.

What I once thought was normal was, in truth, EXTRAORDINARY.

His sacrifices were never announced. They were carefully, disguised as routine. He never said, “Look what I am giving up for you.” He simply SHOWED UP.

That is what a father’s love look like.

And perhaps the most beautiful part of it all is this. He never made it feel like sacrifice. He made it feel like celebration.

Last year, life came full circle.

I decided to take him to watch Mission: Impossible – The Final Reckoning in Muscat at  the IMAX. A  world-class theatre experience for the man who first showed me what a world-class movie could look and sound like. As the surround sound roared and the screen lit up with impossible stunts, I kept glancing at him more than the screen.

This time, I was the one buying the tickets. This time, I was the one saying, “Let’s go.”

Today, if I am writing this, if I am watching such films, understanding them, enjoying their music, bgm’s and dialogues, it is because of HIM.

Some people inherit wealth.
Some inherit property.

I inherited effort, vision, and a very high standard of love that can never be measured in ticket prices.

HAPPY 75^th BIRTHDAY APPA !

Thank you for making the extraordinary feel ordinary.