My father did not build a nation, he did not invent anything, he never wrote anything of significance except a few letters to me, he was not even successful at his job, yet he is my hero. Way above the philosophers, the writers, the nation builders. He inspired me to become what I am today more than any of the others. Not that I am any thing to write home about but without his inspiration, I would not be even half of what I am today.
He was typical of fathers of those days, loving yet strict, perhaps overly strict. Caring but protective, perhaps overly protective. I would not be allowed to leave home without a servant accompanying me until into my late teens. Yet in all his disciplining, in all his protecting, I never once doubted that he loved me, I never once felt insecure. He wanted me to have the highest standards. If I got a grade of less than being top of my class, it would be unacceptable. He sent me to the best schools and challenged me to become the best that I could be.
He died in April, 1966.
Khusro
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