Not every love is loud. Some loves don’t come with grand speeches or over-the-top gestures. Some just stand there quiet, constant, and unshakable. This Father’s Day, I want to talk about one such love: my Appa’s.
This Father’s Day, I gave Appa a gift. Not something wrapped in ribbon—but something wrapped in love, memory, and meaning. A book I poured my heart into: “Story of the Storey – Blindfold Arises.”
This book holds my questions, my strength, my silence, and my voice. It’s a gift I wrote for Appa… and now, it’s a gift I’m sharing with the world.
Dear Arivu Kalanchiyam Dr. KVB
I’ve often heard people say, “I love my parents.” But life has also introduced me to people who carry deep questions about their very existence. People who feel abandoned, unloved, or disconnected from those who brought them into this world. Their stories are valid—and deeply moving. And every time I hear one, I silently thank my stars for the kind of father I have.
Appa is not the loud kind. He’s not overly expressive. But his love is laced into every ordinary moment—like when he’d tell me to wear something comfortable and enjoy life, then raise an eyebrow the next day if I wore my beloved torn jeans. “Why this?” he’d ask, half-mocking, half-worried. I’d smirk, and he’d simply say, “Take care.”
Then came 2020.
The world outside was fighting COVID. I was fighting cancer—stage 4, possibly 5. It turned my world upside down. I had to undergo fourteen rounds of chemotherapy, with seven-day check-ups in between. Appa never came with me to the hospital—not because he didn’t want to, but because I knew he’d fall sick. So he’d just stand at the door, every fourteen days, and wave with a smile hiding all his worry.
After my tenth chemo, I developed chickenpox. My treatment was halted. One night, I threw up. Amma cleaned me. I rushed to the restroom and collapsed. Before I hit the floor, Appa came running. He held me in his arms. Cleaned me. Undressed my soiled clothes. Chose a crop top he once mocked and said, “This will look good on you. Let’s wear this. Take your medicine. Sleep.”
That moment still lives in my body. I was tired. Done. I told him to leave me. I babbled. I cried. But Appa didn’t move. He didn’t flinch. He stayed. He held me when I couldn’t hold myself And that, to me, is the purest definition of a father.
This post is not just about battling cancer. It’s about the unseen battles our fathers fight for us. The way they absorb our pain in silence. The way they step in when we’re at our lowest. The way they carry us—not just in their arms, but in their quiet, endless love.
Appa never asked for gratitude. Never once said, “I did this for you.” But I know. I remember. I carry it with me.
So this Father’s Day, I finally put it into words. A letter to Appa. A thank you. A moment carved in memory. Along with this letter I gave you my gift, unwrapped by famous authors including you.
If you’ve ever been held through your hardest day by someone you love, this letter is for you too.
Book link: Story of the Storey,
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♥️