The sister and I are both visiting home this week, a fact that's making dad very thrilled. Both his girls are home and under his watchful eye once more. All day when we were to arrive, he kept calling both of us and confirming flight timings and pick up details. And today morning, when he peeked into our room and switched the fan off - his favourite waking-us-up technique - i could sense his grin even in my sleepy, eyes closed state.
So we're papa's girls. It's the natural order of things. And as it goes, we too can wrap our father around our little fingers (oh stop looking shocked). Except when he decides to play it tough and then it's just funny. Really. Like the times he tells us that we better clean our room up because he's going to come *inspect* it soon. Or when he tells us he wont let us have icecream after dinner just like that. And better yet, when he hands out *conveyance money* every morning. And when we tell him we don't need it, we're told to just keep it and return it to him at the end of the day. Yes yes. We don't do that. Like you would?
But it's not about the money or the inspections or the ice-cream (ok, a little bit about the ice cream). It's about nostalgia. That familiar tone of voice, exchanging amused looks with the sister, laughing at the mother's head shaking at dad's unabashed daughter pampering. Everything that tells you all's right with the world and you're home.
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