The clan and my dad

Tomorrow is my father’s birthday. To put it in perspective, he’s three years older than Elvis and let me be clear here that by Elvis I don’t mean the labrador who lives in a nearby building, although that Elvis is by no means a spring chicken. To this you would probably retort, “Of course, he’s no spring chicken, you just said he’s a labrador”. All right, all right. Let’s rid ourselves of the animal connections and get back in our house. After all, we are talking about my dad here, the guy who is three years younger then Elvis, but two years older than John Lennon.
As one gets older one’s natural curiosity matures and one needs to know more about one’s parents. The most asked questions, at this juncture would be, a) Who are my parents? b) Is one male and the other female? and c) The most commonly asked one — How tall are they?
At my age (I’m 13 years younger than Madonna), I must admit, my natural curiosity had reached its zenith, so yesterday I sat my father down and, as disgusting as it may sound, I started to probe him. I couldn’t, of course, see my dad even though I was just 16 inches away from him. This may have had something to do with the fact that he was enveloped in a pall of cigarette smoke (which, off the record, I’m told, is his favourite attire as well for each and every occasion).
The first question I asked my dad was to trace his roots, and tell us about his ancestors. In between severe bouts of coughing, my dad explained that he’s a direct descendant of the Pehlvi clan from which Cyrus the Great and all his successors arose. The clan comprised all expert horseman and marksman, and were all “macho men” despite the fact that they wore skirts. He further said that his ancestors invented, amongst other things, “the curtain, the trouser (that too from the same material, thus giving rise to the ancient Farsee saying, ‘One man’s trouser is another man’s curtain’) the open sandwich, sunglasses, the rocking chair, masala chips, Brylcream and, largely unknown, the cover drive in cricket”. He further added that if we returned to Iran, we could roughly stake claim to about 65 per cent of its territory, the other 35 per cent would obviously be shared between the owners of Leopold Café and Maestro Zubin Mehta. I was a little taken aback, but I pressed further, pushing away the cover of smoke with both hands and a leg.
My dad then told me another hidden truth. All members of our clan are actually born ambidextrous. Ambidextrous, as explained by the Oxford dictionary, light version, is the ability to dexterously wash your privates with either hand with equal finesse and intensity. In recorded history, only Hammurabi and King Harsha were proven examples of this versatility.
My dad then said that to fit into society and merge peacefully, our clan members wilfully gave up on this balanced usuage and instead favoured just one hand. Another trait he stressed on was the fact that though clan members lose hair, the hair always grows back and thicker. Unfortunately, it doesn’t grown back on the head.
He then described the journey the clan members undertook to get from Iran to India. They had to withstand tough climbs, snow blizzards, dust storms, bears, tigers, mosquitoes and, worst of all, vegetarian food. But they stood firm with grit and fortitude, primarily because they were told they were actually on their way to Germany, which obviously excited them as no clan member had tasted draught beer before.
The clan lived by the motto “Faree Faroo Farahaha”, which means honesty, integrity and eight hours’ sleep.
Even today if a clan member recognises my dad on the road, he shows his respect by bowing. Although the last time a passerby actually bowed, I could have sworn he was just adjusting his belt at the time but I may have been mistaken. My father also stressed the importance of being kind to animals, mating for life and never voting in the Communist Party. Of these three diktats the most important, he said, was the latter one.
I learnt a lot from the exercise. I learnt my dad is royalty, that he’s very wise and that if you play with smoke you generally land up coughing a lot. I feel we have gotten closer, both emotionally and healthwise.
So, Happy Birthday Dad, and remember, in three years you’ll be the same age as Elvis.