The first time I saw her.

Today is Father’s day. My first. It is also three months to the day that my daughter was born although, it actually feels like it has been both a blink of an eye and an eternity.

This is the day I may get breakfast in bed, a small gift and perhaps a card with a heart on it and a baby’s hand print as the signature. The day that dads get to share in a little of the limelight and get a little bit spoiled. Fatherhood for was something that would happen the way life does, naturally. It would happen when I was ready for it. Not in a financial sense or even emotionally but, from a sense of personal responsibility. A time when I was willing to let go of my insecurities, preferences, habits and any other baggage that had accumulated throughout my life and have the courage to do what it takes to carry the new mantle of ‘Dad’.

I have heard people say that becoming a parent helps you lose your selfishness and so far I couldn’t disagree more, in a sense. For me, it has crystallised and sped a vision of self-improvement that I have always held. The courage isn’t to surrender myself to the responsibilities of parenthood but take the responsibility to discover myself fully in order to be the best parent I can be. Luckily, I have a role model. Someone who demonstrated to me a lesson of such importance, I would like to share it on.

For years, I have joked that the expecting father should be in the waiting room with a cigar in hand waiting while the child is born. And, if I had actually followed through with this, I would have missed one of my life’s most brilliant moments. The pregnancy itself had its fair share of challenges and since birth, new challenges have taken their place. However, the defining moment was a point between the before and the after, a timeless gap that has been burned into my mind and body so deeply, I cannot see it ever leaving. I am sure I cannot provide the moment the gravity it deserves in writing nor express the depth at which it was felt but, perhaps I can offer a glimpse and just maybe, the reader can capture a little of the experience. Here we go.

The water broke near midnight, by three a.m. we arrived at the hospital and at around 8 a.m. we moved into the birthing room. It was here that things slowed considerably. The contractions were close together but everything else was moving forward at a crawl. The pain seemed high but bearable enough with aid from the gas, that each time the nurse made the near hourly offer for an epidural, it was knocked back. At around two p.m, the pain could no longer be reduced enough and the epidural was accepted. As expected, things slowed down again and large doses of oxytocin were introduced to move the labour along. Near six in the evening, things leapt into high gear and moved really fast, just as the last available epidural dose began losing its effect. At a little after 7, with the last of the painkillers gone from the system, the time came to start pushing. It was at this point that the pain looked to ramp up to a level that is unimaginable to anyone that has not experienced it, and then it happened – The defining moment.

Through a flurry of action and beeping machines, I truly saw my wife for the first time. Except, in this moment, this space, she was no longer my wife or the woman I had known. No longer a woman with preferences or insecurities. There was no nationality, no culture, no political affiliation. There were no regrets from the past or desires for the future. No fear in her eyes at a pain I cannot begin to imagine, no worry about her appearance or concern of who saw the sweat, blood and tears pour from her small, breaking body. In those minutes she was raw, stripped of any superficial layer that could be used to define her, to box her in, to limit her in any way. It was now only her; pure, beautiful and extraordinary doing only what was absolutely necessary, completely in the present, fully in the now.

This is what has been burned into me, a vision or understanding of what lies beneath my wife. An individual strength so great it can tear through the universe and literally create life. I held her in those moments, witnessed her in her most authentic form where the seemingly impossible was proven not to be. Where she was both nothing and everything simultaneously, yet completely unaware of my presence even though I was mere centimetres from her face, whispering into her ear. Every piece of her had concentrated into one whole, to perform one task and anything that lay outside of what was required, was irrelevant. Thought and action united completely to do what it must. This was being in the zone at its greatest depth- perfect flow.

I can only relay what I witnessed like a battlefield reporter. I have talked to my wife and asked her questions yet she has few answers as she doesn’t remember her thoughts or actions, the faces that surrounded her, what was said or done when complications took place, the words of the midwife or the look on the face of the trainee nurse participating in only her fourth birth as a doctor performed the suction to free our daughter. She definitely doesn’t remember what I whispered in her ear or how many times I told her I love her. She was so deep in the moment and consuming so much energy, her mind had nothing left with which to create solid memories. But in those few minutes she was transparent, a flawless diamond.

The moment to me was purity, clarity and strength combining to act in its highest form and I am forever grateful to have been a witness. I am not sure if this is the experience of all women in childbirth or what all fathers see and feel in those moments but I feel I glimpsed truth. What I witnessed was life in the way it should be experienced. Wholly. Completely. Hanna gave me this insight and proved something to me I think I have always known; there is a power within that the mind can not imagine and words cannot describe.

At four minutes past eight, 4 hours before the day would turn to our first wedding anniversary, my daughter Ava was born, and I became a father. And, after all that she had just been through, within seconds, my wife turned to me and asked, “Is she okay?” It is then that the next truth arrived – my wife will carry the impossible to protect her child. It is my hope, that reading about what I saw, Hanna will realise that her power inside is always present and doesn’t require a moment of intense pain or stress to use. I hope she can use it to do all she can and help our daughter discover that the same lies within her too.

For me, the path in front will forever be one of self-discovery and a quest to be at my highest form. There will be many failures, bad choices and old habits and fears will continue to surface. I will hurt people, help people, offend and encourage but, I owe it to myself, the woman who stands with me, the future of my daughter and all children as well as for the world at large to discover and use my gifts and be the best I can be. Perhaps only after walking this road, whether in joy or crushing defeat, I would have earned the right do be a role model also, the right to be called –

Dad.

Now, it is hopefully time for breakfast in bed.

Blind Hire.

Would I ever hire someone for a position I had little knowledge of or a well investigated outline for? Would I ever base my hiring decisions on whether I like someone or because they think in a similar fashion as myself? I wonder this because it seems we make our voting decisions in much this way. How can I make a good decision on who I choose for President, Prime minister or any leadership position when I have no idea what the job requirements are or what challenges the position faces?

For instance:

• The country needs jobs – How are jobs created?
• National Debt is high –  What are the causes and potential remedies?
• Social Services are under pressure – Why and what can be done?
• Immigration challenges – What does this actually mean?
• Global economies are struggling – What are the causes and risks?
• Companies need to increase exports – Why, how and what resources are required?

If I can’t answer these kinds of questions at an informed, mid-range level, how do I choose a representative to handle them? Is it acceptable to make my decision based on how I ‘feel’ about the person without closing knowledge gaps with well-rounded information on the tasks with which they will deal? Perhaps they make me feel good about the way I currently think or promise to punish or remove the causes of my fear so that I can feel secure. Should I believe a candidate when they say I know, I will, I promise? Without deep understanding myself, how do I know that what they know and promise is suitable for the operating environment? How do I know that they have (or can gather people with) the skills and knowledge necessary to improve the situation? The current decision-making process seems to be quite irrational, based on media-fuelled emotion and conflicting desires coupled with a lack of understanding on both the causes of the current situations and how to improve them for the future.

Personally, with all of the complication this world has in it, I would have to question anyone that says ‘I know’ and when I catch myself saying it, I should question myself also. ‘I know’ is a conclusion and when people feel they know, they don’t worry about looking any further for potential errors, risks or opportunities. And, every time someone has said ‘I know’, at some point in the near or distant future, their knowledge is outdated, surpassed, irrelevant and what they know has actually become just another habit, possibly a harmful one at that.

I may be more inclined to lean towards someone that doubts a little, is somewhat uncertain but comfortable with the uncertainty as they are more likely to research, investigate, double check, consult, collaborate, try many things and continually adjust and attempt again. If they face uncertainty with a positive attitude, an optimism, an openness, an acceptance of risk and responsibility, then they may just be the right person for the job as each failure endured brings with it better information and creates a learning experience. And for them, each success is not an end point but a way point as improvement is seen as a continuous journey and change an inevitable part of any future.

But once I make the hiring decision, I must play my role. The role of supporter which is most important as it is the level of support that is the wind that drives change or the anchor that holds it in place. A captain can go nowhere with a ship at anchor but far with a dedicated and skilled crew and a good wind to fill the sails. Investing in the coming future can be expensive, difficult, scary and mistakes are likely to be made. Reminiscing in the past can bring feelings of comfort and safety through the golden lenses of memory and perhaps a desire to return to those times. Only one of these directions is ultimately possible.

Am I the wind of continual change or an anchor fighting the currents?

 

 

What makes a life?

 

What feels like many years ago, I paid my way through university with a job at McDonald’s in Cairns, Queensland. While working the drive-thru window, a car came through with South Australian number plates and a man in his late forties driving. I commented how far he is from home (some 3000 kilometers) and he paused, looked at me harder a few moments and asked: “Are you Mr Kanti-Paul’s son?”

“Yes, I am.”

There are many stories to be told, many more that shall remain untold and the uncountable that will inevitably be lost through time but, I thought I would mention a couple briefly here. Stories that stand out in my mind as road signs of a life.

Raised in Malaysia to Indian parents, my father experienced many things. He learned many languages, was a brilliant student, began teaching his first qualified class at sixteen years of age (a class I will mention later) and became quite a renowned, self-taught artist. To get to do these things at all was a miracle in itself and one story that highlights this may be a story of chance.

Much of his early childhood in Malacca was lived between battles in the Pacific theatre of World War 2. At one point, when he was around 6 or so, the Japanese invaded his town. Scared villagers ran into the surrounding jungle and the invading soldiers were ordered to follow in a walking firing line, shooting all they found. My Grandma, a tiny woman with children in tow, huddled her family under a very large leaf when they could run no farther. She prayed in fear that her children would stay silent and they would survive. Moments passed that I can only guess must have felt eternal until the muzzle of a rifle lifted the leaf under which they hid and the eyes of a young Japanese soldier looked at them. With the sound of gunfire ringing close by, the soldier put his finger to his lips in a be quiet motion and lowered the leaf back down. Surrounded by cruelty and violence, a small kindness by someone choosing not to follow orders, saved a family. My family. Who knows how many similar stories there may be from those times and how many soldiers chose to follow the given orders instead.

During those occupied times, my grandfather, a Post-master, used his access to correspondence to help organise the transport of escaped Prisoners of War out of Malaysia. A very dangerous activity. One day, their Chinese neighbours, who were also part of the underground network, were caught and the town was gathered to watch as the entire family were beheaded as a lesson to prevent others. The following day, my grandfather continued his secret work. I don’t think it was defiance or stubbornness that drove him, I think it was because he felt it his duty to do what he felt was the right thing to do. I wonder how many families around the world owe their life to a letter passed through a tiny post office in Malacca and the hands of someone that risked a lot to do the right thing. Many people protect their own, some extend that protection to all and I think that carried through in my father.

Stubbornness does seem to run through the family though. As I said, my father is a self-taught artist. A ‘hobby’ that my grandfather disapproved of as it was not a proper career and subsequently prohibited my father from doing. As a result, while studying, he practiced in secret and by 12 or so, he and his slightly older brother were making small amounts of money by painting billboard advertisements on theatres for the latest movie releases. To this day, 70 years later, he still teaches art classes. As they say, find something you love.

Although a teacher by profession, it was eventually his art that took him abroad. Due to his continued pursuit of his craft and local success, he was invited to hold an exhibition in Australia which ended up being successful enough that he chose to move permanently to Australia and follow his career. The only problem was that Australia was still in the midst of ‘White Only’ policy for immigration, making it very difficult for any others to enter the country. However, in the end, he was able to get corporate sponsorship to back his move and he settled in Adelaide where he began teaching art, holding exhibitions and soon after, meeting my mother.

After their marriage in 1966 (which made front page of the Advertiser newspaper because mixed-race marriages were so rare- their’s was the second) they moved to Gawler and my dad took up an art teaching position at the local high school. I can’t imagine life would have been easy at the time in mid-sixties Gawler, a place not overly known for its ethnic diversity. But it was in this small town 42 kilometers North of Adelaide that he and my mother raised 5 children.

It was here that we would be challenged by our father to running races, climbing competitions, kick a football, play cricket and watch him mow a mammoth patch of grass. It was here that we would listen to bedtime stories that he made up each night about fantastical creatures or the misadventures and triumphs of a hundred other characters. It was here I would watch him get ready for work and never miss a day shaving. It was here we would be consoled after hard days at school where children were not always kind. This was a place to be yourself, regardless of the facade the rest of the world saw. It was not always easy, but it was home.

Throughout all of this he would paint. Sitting for thousands upon thousands of hours meticulously working. Mixing colours on old ice cream container lids, washing brushes in jars and peering at frames he stretched himself while they rested on long gone news sheets.  He held exhibitions, around Australia, won several awards for various pieces and our home was filled with an artistic journey that crossed thematic and medium boundaries, spanned continents and if you knew him well-enough, expressed every emotion a life can experience. All the children are artistic in some way yet, he never taught us to paint. I am not sure why but perhaps it is because painting is his love and it is for us to find our own.

I have watched my father give his all to others. And I mean everything. If he felt someone needed something he had, he gave. I think over the years, many people both related and unrelated have taken advantage of his nature. I have watched him give all he had to a near stranger while he struggled to feed himself. I have watched him give all he has to his family and never ask for anything in return. I think my dad views himself as a facilitator. I think he has a sense of duty to leave this world a little better than he found it, even if he doesn’t benefit from it directly.

When he got his first teaching position, he used his salaries to buy books, uniforms and shoes for as many children as he could because they couldn’t attend without. He was 16 and not much older than those children himself. Many years later in a restaurant in Cairns, I met one of these students, a Malaysian General. He had used his contacts to track my father down and after his retirement from the military, arranged a meeting by letter. It had been over 50 years since he had been in that first class and he still cried when he saw my father. He had been living in poverty when they had first met and credits my dad with saving him from wherever that path would have led. He told many stories of those classroom days that opened my eyes a little more to what a life may be and as he did so, he had the look of a little boy viewing his hero. In the end, he surprised my dad with a trip back to Malacca for a class reunion where more such stories were told about my father. I don’t know if my dad remembers all of those students by name and their faces must have seen much more life than when he had seen them last but, they definitely remember him.

Perhaps this is what makes a life. The impacts we have on the environment and the world around us. The people we influence. Small acts of compassion that allow a family to grow. The advancement of skills that become careers and open doors never before imagined. People that hold us back and those that advance us. Those who remember us for how we have helped or saved them or remember how we have hurt them. As we go about our daily life, we constantly shift the paths of our world and influence an unseen future. Our paths cross and move apart but have forever been influenced by their proximity to each other.

I think over the years. My dad has played a role in influencing many people’s lives. He has given talks at conferences to many thousands, his art viewed by many more. He has helped how he could, when he could and supported countless numbers to find their own way, whatever that may be. I get the impression that there are many out there who have found inspiration through my father and many lives that are a little better for having known him.

At that fast food drive-thru window in Cairns the driver said:
“I was always rubbish at art but I learned things in your dad’s class that have made me a better person today.”

I know that feeling.

To me he is dad, to you perhaps Tushar, Tushy, Mr. Paul and to many, many people, Mr. Kanti-Paul. I don’t know with certainty what makes a life, but I know that he has lived one.

Today, he turns 80.
Happy Birthday Dad.