A recent Father’s Day post by my school type, Reji sir, nudged me to finally write down this long-overdue tribute.

My father was born and raised in a small village near Gobichettipalayam, studied in a local Tamil-medium government school, and spent his life working as a small-scale farmer. To the outside world, he was just another man tethered to the land. But to me, he was an extraordinary polymath. Long before I earned any formal degrees, he was already opening up the mechanics of the universe for my young mind—pieced together from library books, sharp observation, and an irrepressible wonder.

He shared with us an astonishing amount of knowledge and taught me so many practical skills. Even today, I often think about how unusual that was. At the age I was then, and even with the education I later received, many of the things he taught me were never taught by anyone else. In a time when we had no internet and no television at home, he cultivated something extraordinary in our quiet corner of the world: an unbounded, voracious curiosity. He carried inside him a surprising store of knowledge: practical, technical, historical, and sometimes oddly specific. Even today, I wonder where it all came from. Perhaps from libraries. Perhaps from observation. Perhaps from conversations and a restless curiosity that never left him. Whatever the source, he inspired us to be curious & creative.

Like many fathers, he loved his children deeply. But what set him apart was his intellect. He didn’t just teach us facts; he showed us how to think, turning everyday village life into vivid, unforgettable lessons.

A simple piece of plastic paper, a few threads tied to its corners, and a small stone at the end became a toy parachute. He would throw it up, and we would watch it drift gently back down. It was play, but it was also science. In the same spirit, he explained how fishing nets worked, how iron weights around the edges helped them close in the water and trap fish. He made us see design, function, and intelligence in everyday things.

He made a toy parachute out of plastic and string, explained how fishing nets worked, bent waste iron rods into useful things for the house, taught me cycling and swimming, prepared me for the Sainik School entrance exam, and explained everything from bypass roads and national highways to carburettors, molasses, mirror writing, and aircraft parts like ailerons and rudders.

He repurposed an old table into our study desk, bought us a table lamp when that felt like a luxury, and even brought a photographer to our village home to take our pictures in sunflower fields, at a time when photographs were usually reserved for weddings. He taught not by speeches, but by example, observation, and everyday acts of care.

Life did not go the way he might have hoped. My parents’ marriage was unhappy, my mother died by suicide, my sister has battled prolonged depression, and many of his aspirations remained unfulfilled. His life reminded me that effort is not the only force that shapes destiny. Luck, fate, time, and place matter too.

And yet, when I think of him, I do not think first of sorrow. I think of his mind, his hands, his patience, and his ability to turn even the smallest moment into a lesson. He did not leave behind wealth, but he gave us something greater: curiosity, resilience, and the habit of looking at the world closely.

That is how I remember my father — a man from a small village, with a quiet brilliance that deserved a much larger stage.