My father, the world’s best worst liar

On Appa’s last birthday here, on earth (April 16, 2007), a note from the ‘Dear Diary’ column of the New York Times read as follows:

Dear Diary:

Early last month, at a nail salon on the Upper West Side, a college student seated to my right chatted incessantly on her cellphone, loudly sharing the details of her love life. Occasionally, for a juicy tidbit, she resorted to elementary Hebrew.

When the woman on my left snorted in response to one of the racier comments, the two of us locked eyes and instantly knew we were both understanding the words.

When the woman got up to leave, she called out loudly to me, “Happy Purim!” — making sure the chatterer understood that when it comes to secret languages on the Upper West Side, basic Hebrew is not an option!

-Ora Shtull

A believer sees signs everywhere. I believe in Appa’s nothingness, so it feels like it is only fitting that this piece made the cut, that fateful day.

Why?

Because Appa was the world’s best worst liar with excellent lie detection skills. He added the shiniest coating of wax to pedestrian tales, to make them seem like juicy bits of information. But he was also able to call out lies because he lied so very often.

If he were here today, he would say the following about the diary entry: It feels like the second Jewish lady’s final comment is entirely made up. The ending is too good to be true. A lot of the imagination has been strained to add masala to this otherwise frankly bland diary note.

But why tell the truth when you can lie? Doesn’t the story now have more flair, he’d ask.

Appa was truly the world’s best worst liar and lied about the silliest things. When Amma would catch Anuchu and me bluffing about our marks or about a purposely missed tuition class, she would often yell at us saying, “Neenum ungappa maari dhan. Vaai nariya poi” (Just like your father, mouth full of lies).

If we had to rank the liars in the family, Anusha and Amma would take the top spots. Even if they get caught, they would make it seem like the lie was essential. If that didn’t work, they would get angry at us for pointing out their lie. The conversation would shift. Here, lies became the truth.

Appa and I would rank in the rock bottom. Appa could lie decently but he would lie about everything — how he lost his phone, the colour of his shirt, who he met over business dinners and how many days it would take to come back home.

Here, lies were embellishments.

He’d also lie for us, Anuchu and me: “I asked for the extra plate of garlic bread”; “I like purple glitter on the walls. We should keep it”; “Nobody ate any ice cream while coming back from school”; “These girls are exceptionally beautiful”.

Here, lies became walls of protection.

In all honesty, “Don’t tell Amma” was the diktat that solidified our lifelong friendship. It welded us terrible liars. It was on our brief scooter rides back from school or the grocery store, that we would conspire the most. Lies here, meant freedom from consequence.

When he’d get away with it, Appa would be cocky: like Icarus, flying too close to the bright Chennai sun with waxen wings dripping of bluff.

But, when he’d get caught, it would be a pitiable sight. He would beg for forgiveness shamelessly, almost prostrating, making me lose all respect. “Sorry Minu” would escape from his mouth as easily as ‘hi’ and ‘hello’.

Because he lied so often, he could also figure out every time I lied.

For years, I wondered if he had me followed because it was impossible to win against the man.

One time in Class 3, I did not score great marks in a maths exam (my kryptonite). We were expected to get our report cards signed by our parents and return it the next day. I was a mostly truthful child, mortally afraid of my mother’s painful whacks. I did the obvious. I practised Amma’s child-like sign (it is literally her name in cursive) and submitted it to school. Appa, who rarely came to pick me up at school, found out about the report card and very slyly asked me about it on our scooter ride back home.

“No report card this term appa, only next term,” I said, trying to sell him the same story I told Amma. He stopped the bike and pulled out the report card. My face fell and he laughed. He added that my imitation of amma’s signature was pretty good.

“But forgery is a crime, Sanju. You could be in jail. Not a good idea to do this next time,” he said, instilling a useless fear in my head. I have never practised someone else’s sign since.

Another time in Class 7, when I launched head-first into the world of visual sexual stimulation (porn), I would spend hours holed up in front of the computer screen, telling my mother that I was working on a project about pandas. Amma was not stupid. She knew that I changed tabs every time she walked in. She decided that it was better if Appa handled this point of conversation with me.

“How is the panda project going?”

“Mostly well. Did you know they spend between 10 and 16 hours eating?”

“Okay, are you learning about how they reproduce also?”

“Whaaaat”

“Amma said she heard some noises and wondered if they were actually pandas trying to have a baby”

*silence*

“It is okay to want to know about sex. Pandas do it. So do humans”

“Okay appa talk to you later. Bye”.

There are many visceral memories of me having had to lie for Appa too. Most do not flatter him as a parent. Asking his 12-year-old to cover for his misdeeds should be at the top of this list. Some of his lies have had major implications.

For example, some 16 years ago, he said he would come back home but well, just died.

But he was a cool guy who laughed when I lied and covered for me. I guess I should not mind these massive holes in my heart and hold grudges.

Today, Anuchu and I continue to tell harmless lies. A drink here, a puff there and boys we ought not to bring home. She is still far better than me.

“Don’t tell Amma” still governs our rare scooter rides and secrets.