No Other Way.

I was born in Palanpur,
in a home made of cool marble and quiet love.
It’s one of my earliest memories,
not in sharp detail, but in feeling.

I remember the two little steps
between our living room and dining room,
the colored glass my maa had hand-painted with care,
and the hush of the house —
still, peaceful, safe.

Then the press closed.
Pappa’s printing business folded,
and we moved to Ahmedabad.
He became a chemist,
not by training, but by necessity.
Opened a small medical store,
and began working relentlessly.

From 8 AM to midnight, every day.
Sundays were half-days, technically.
But he stayed up late Saturday nights,
sorting bills while the rest of the city slept,
just to buy himself a little sleep the next morning,
while Maa opened the shop.
And if we were lucky,
we got a few hours together as a family.

And when we did,
we made the most of them.

Pappa loved movies.
We went to late-night shows,
often the last one of the day.
There was barely a film we ever missed,
we had to watch them all.

Maybe it was his escape,
two hours where the world was simpler,
the music told you how to feel,
and everything, eventually, resolved.

Afterward, we’d grab ice cream,
talk about the film all the way home.
Sometimes, even a late-night drive,
no destination,
just the city gliding past,
quiet, ours.
Love, in motion.

This rhythm became our life.
After school, I’d sit at the shop,
or wait at home while Hemin cooked food.
The business expanded.
He started new ones.
Things got easier.
Comfortable, even.

And then came 2020.

By then, Pappa had stepped back from the store.
Delegated the day-to-day.
He had earned that distance.

But when the pandemic hit,
he returned.
To the counter.
To the calls.
To the chaos.
Not out of obligation,
but because he couldn’t look away.

He worked like it was his duty to the city.
To people.
To something bigger than all of us.

That year, strangely, gave us more time together too.
He came home early,
around four in the evening,
unheard of before.
We played cards,
watched movies at home,
made popcorn,
blended cold coffee in steel tumblers,
and laughed in the soft glow of the TV.
He returned to the kitchen after years.
And I stood beside him,
chopping vegetables,
while the world gasped for air.

But every night, without fail,
the phone would ring.
Again and again.

“Do you have oxygen?”
“Do you have this injection?”
“Can you help?”

I asked him once
“why not silence it?
Put it on DND.
Answer in the morning.
Sleep.”

He said,
“If I can help, they stop searching.
If I can’t, they stop hoping.
Either way, they need to know now.”

While others hoarded medicine,
“just in case,”
he refused.
“These expire in weeks,” he said.
“We don’t need them now.
Someone else does.”

And while black market rates soared,
he kept his prices fair.
Made just enough to restock,
never more than he needed.
Not when the world was suffering.

Some would say
he missed a great business opportunity.
But did he?

That year,
I saw what kind of man my pappa truly is.
Not just a provider.
Not just someone who works hard.
But someone who, when the moment came,
chose kindness over profit,
clarity over panic,
and people over fear.

Someone who didn’t do the right thing for applause,
he did it because he couldn’t imagine
doing anything else.

That’s the thing about ethics.
They’re not supposed to change
just because it’s hard.

And my pappa,
he never named it ethics.
He just lived it.
Quietly.
Consistently.
Without ceremony.

No posts.
No pride.
Just presence.

Because for him,
there was no other way.
It wasn’t a philosophy.
It was who he was.
The simplest thing.
The most unwavering thing.

And in a world that was unraveling,
he held firm.

I always knew he was a good man.
But during the pandemic,
I saw his goodness tested,
and I saw him pass,
quietly, humbly,
like it was the only way he knew how to be.

And I,
who had always loved him,
came to respect him
in a way that went deeper than love.

I grew up beside him.
But in that year,
I saw him fully.

Sometimes,
you only meet people completely
when the world begins to fall apart.
Sometimes,
that person is your father.