My Dad, the Believer and the Vehami Gene
From superstition-fuelled mornings to a garage full of green soap, I remembers my father—the most wonderfully vehami man I knew. A story about quirks, quiet faith, and the love we inherit in the smallest ways.
Growing up, I've always had my own little superstitions. If I didn't have a good day at school—maybe I got scolded or faced tough questions on a test—I would start analyzing my entire day. Did I miss brushing my teeth for exactly 45 seconds? Did I put on my clothes before wearing my earrings? Maybe I wore that hairband I secretly believed to be unlucky. After careful analysis, I'd decide what needed to be fixed for a better day and just move on.
The Paratha and the Toothbrush Dilemma
This influence was unknowingly brought upon me by my father—I had subconsciously adopted it from him. One morning, I woke up and went straight to the kitchen. He was awake, making parathas. I was thrilled because I loved his parathas (who wouldn't? He’d finish an entire jar of ghee making eight parathas!). Eagerly, I grabbed a plate and began piling on parathas with dahi and white makhan. But my dad interrupted: "Muh haath dho lo, brush karlo pehle."
Future me is disgusted at the memory—it had been less than 50 seconds since I'd woken up. But at that time, I had this belief that morning tooth brushing was ruining my day, and I absolutely had to put food in my mouth immediately after waking up. I explained exactly this to my dad. He was puzzled, not to mention slightly disgusted. Abandoning his paratha, he followed me to the dining table, asking me why morning tooth brushing was causing problems.
So I shared a recent incident—I had casually revised some history chapters, and coincidentally, we had a surprise test the next day. On that day, I'd forgotten to brush my teeth in the morning and instead brushed after school. Seeing the good result, I stuck to it. Next day, my friends and I broke someone’s scooter mirror playing, and we didn’t get caught. The day after, our PT teacher skipped me when making students run warm-up rounds. Clearly, the habit was working!
(I know—future me is shaking my head right now.) But at that moment, my dad listened joyfully as I explained this strange belief system. Smiling, he told me, "Tu mere jaisi hai, mujhe bhi veham hote hain." That was the first time I heard the word—veham. I had veham, and my father was possibly the most vehami person you'd ever meet, at least back then.
The Soap of the Stars (and My Father's Brand Loyalty)
He had always been obsessed with green toiletries—from soap bars to shampoos to hair oils. If it was green, he'd buy it. He particularly loved Green Lux soap. One day, Hindustan Lever decided to discontinue it. Our neighborhood grocery owner, Bunty Uncle, urgently sent whatever stock he had left—half a carton—to my mom. My mom called my dad at work, delivering the devastating news.
My father, without hesitation, went straight to Sabun Bazaar after work (yes, a legit place in Ludhiana! which now has everything except saban) and bought every Green Lux soap he could find. We had a garage downstairs, large enough for two cars. For the next decade or so, it was stacked high with Green Lux.
After about fifteen years, the stash finally started to dwindle. We’d followed the news, listened carefully to soap distributor gossip—no signs of revival from HUL. Dad had no choice but to experiment with new green soaps. Over the next two months, he methodically tested every green soap in the market: Cinthol, Hamam, Medimix, Nirma, Rexona, Margo—each one given a week to prove its worth. Did yarn sales increase? Were bad debts cleared? Did commissions rise unexpectedly? How well did the yarn dye turn out?
Eventually, Rexona emerged victorious. Soon, packs of four Rexona soaps appeared regularly in our bi-monthly grocery orders. Apparently, it was even better than Green Lux. Then one day, Liril soap hit the market with its captivating TV ad, quickly becoming popular among girls at school. I convinced my mother to order one, nervously using it, hoping it wouldn't spoil my luck. Thankfully, nothing happened. After some more experimentation, I concluded soaps weren’t my veham.
Growing up, I managed to shake off most of my childhood superstitions—carefully testing each one through balanced months of "off and on" days. But some quirks stuck, like never passing sharp objects directly by hand or bathing with my lucky towel the day before an important shoot. These little habits still remind me warmly of home and the vehami ways we shared. My father was a believer—in his work, in his potential, and in everything he passionately cared about. These little rituals weren’t just habits; they were his quiet ways of keeping the things he loved safe. And maybe that’s all it ever was—his way of holding on to hope, in the only way he knew how. I think of that now, every time I catch myself doing something that makes no sense on paper but feels like insurance from the universe. Happy Father's Day to the most wonderfully vehami dad!
