my father essay in bengali

My Father Paragraph

Posted on 20th Oct 2021 11:45:29 PM Paragraph , Short Note

The man whom I admire most is my father. He is second to none. He is my guide, philosopher, teacher, friend and so on.

My father's name is Azizul Haque. He is an engineer. He loves me very much, but he is very strict also. When he returns from his office he spends time playing with me. Sometimes he takes care of me and my mother. Sometimes he goes out for refreshment. He is very fond of music and takes us to concerts also. Sometimes he takes me to school when he is at home. He does not allow me to watch television at reading time. He gives me several gifts whenever I do very well in my studies. I love my father very much. I am very lucky to have such a father.

A man like my father is rare. He loves me and I also love him very much.

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Essay on My Father for Students and Children

500+ words essay on my father.

Essay on My Father: Usually, people talk about a mother’s love and affection, in which a father’s love often gets ignored. A mother’s love is talked about repeatedly everywhere, in movies, in shows and more. Yet, what we fail to acknowledge is the strength of a father which often goes unnoticed. Father’s a blessing which not many people have in their lives. It would also be wrong to say that every father is the ideal hero for their kids because that is not the case. However, I can vouch for my father without any second thoughts when it comes to being an ideal person.

My Father is Different!

As everyone likes to believe that their father is different, so do I. Nonetheless, this conviction is not merely based on the love I have for him, but also because of his personality. My father owns a business and is quite disciplined in all aspects of life. He is the one who taught me to always practice discipline no matter what work I do.

Most importantly, he has a jovial nature and always makes my mother laugh with his silly antics even after 27 years of marriage. I completely adore this silly side of him when he is with his loved ones. He tries his best to fulfill all our wishes but also maintains the strictness when the need arises.

One of the best things I love about my father is that he has always kept a very safe and open home environment. For instance, my siblings and I can talk about anything with him without the fear of being scolded or judged. This has helped us not to lie, which I have often noticed with my friends.

In addition, my father has an undying love for animals which makes him very sympathetic towards them. He practices his religion devotedly and is very charitable too. I have never seen my father misbehave with his elders in my entire life which makes me want to be like him even more.

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My Father is My Source of Inspiration

I can proudly say that it is my father who has been my source of inspiration from day one. In other words, his perspective and personality together have shaped me as a person. Similarly, he has a great impact on the world as well in his own little ways. He devotes his free time in taking care of stray animals which inspires me to do the same.

My father has taught me the meaning of love in the form of a rose he gifts to my mother daily without fail. This consistency and affection encourage all of us to treat them the same way. All my knowledge of sports and cars, I have derived from my father. It is one of the sole reasons why I aspire to be a cricket player in the future.

To sum it up, I believe that my father has it all what it takes to be called a real-life superhero. The way he manages things professionally and personally leaves me mesmerized every time. No matter how tough the times got, I watched my father become tougher. I certainly aspire to become like my father. If I could just inherit ten percent of what he is, I believe my life will be sorted.

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Hell-Heaven

By Jhumpa Lahiri

Pranab Chakraborty wasn’t technically my father’s younger brother. He was a fellow-Bengali from Calcutta who had washed up on the barren shores of my parents’ social life in the early seventies, when they lived in a rented apartment in Central Square and could number their acquaintances on one hand. But I had no real uncles in America, and so I was taught to call him Pranab Kaku. Accordingly, he called my father Shyamal Da, always addressing him in the polite form, and he called my mother Boudi, which is how Bengalis are supposed to address an older brother’s wife, instead of using her first name, Aparna. After Pranab Kaku was befriended by my parents, he confessed that on the day we first met him he had followed my mother and me for the better part of an afternoon around the streets of Cambridge, where she and I tended to roam after I got out of school. He had trailed behind us along Massachusetts Avenue, and in and out of the Harvard Coop, where my mother liked to look at discounted housewares. He wandered with us into Harvard Yard, where my mother often sat on the grass on pleasant days and watched the stream of students and professors filing busily along the paths, until, finally, as we were climbing the steps to Widener Library so that I could use the bathroom, he tapped my mother on the shoulder and inquired, in English, if she might be a Bengali. The answer to his question was clear, given that my mother was wearing the red and white bangles unique to Bengali married women, and a common Tangail sari, and had a thick stem of vermillion powder in the center parting of her hair, and the full round face and large dark eyes that are so typical of Bengali women. He noticed the two or three safety pins she wore fastened to the thin gold bangles that were behind the red and white ones, which she would use to replace a missing hook on a blouse or to draw a string through a petticoat at a moment’s notice, a practice he associated strictly with his mother and sisters and aunts in Calcutta. Moreover, Pranab Kaku had overheard my mother speaking to me in Bengali, telling me that I couldn’t buy an issue of Archie at the Coop. But back then, he also confessed, he was so new to America that he took nothing for granted, and doubted even the obvious.

My parents and I had lived in Central Square for three years prior to that day; before that, we had lived in Berlin, where I was born and where my father had finished his training in microbiology before accepting a position as a researcher at Mass General, and before Berlin my mother and father had lived in India, where they had been strangers to each other, and where their marriage had been arranged. Central Square is the first place I can recall living, and in my memories of our apartment, in a dark-brown shingled house on Ashburton Place, Pranab Kaku is always there. According to the story he liked to recall often, my mother invited him to accompany us back to our apartment that very afternoon, and prepared tea for the two of them; then, after learning that he had not had a proper Bengali meal in more than three months, she served him the leftover curried mackerel and rice that we had eaten for dinner the night before. He remained into the evening, for a second dinner, after my father got home, and after that he showed up for dinner almost every night, occupying the fourth chair at our square Formica kitchen table, and becoming a part of our family in practice as well as in name.

He was from a wealthy family in Calcutta and had never had to do so much as pour himself a glass of water before moving to America, to study engineering at M.I.T. Life as a graduate student in Boston was a cruel shock, and in his first month he lost nearly twenty pounds. He had arrived in January, in the middle of a snowstorm, and at the end of a week he had packed his bags and gone to Logan, prepared to abandon the opportunity he’d worked toward all his life, only to change his mind at the last minute. He was living on Trowbridge Street in the home of a divorced woman with two young children who were always screaming and crying. He rented a room in the attic and was permitted to use the kitchen only at specified times of the day, and instructed always to wipe down the stove with Windex and a sponge. My parents agreed that it was a terrible situation, and if they’d had a bedroom to spare they would have offered it to him. Instead, they welcomed him to our meals, and opened up our apartment to him at any time, and soon it was there he went between classes and on his days off, always leaving behind some vestige of himself: a nearly finished pack of cigarettes, a newspaper, a piece of mail he had not bothered to open, a sweater he had taken off and forgotten in the course of his stay.

I remember vividly the sound of his exuberant laughter and the sight of his lanky body slouched or sprawled on the dull, mismatched furniture that had come with our apartment. He had a striking face, with a high forehead and a thick mustache, and overgrown, untamed hair that my mother said made him look like the American hippies who were everywhere in those days. His long legs jiggled rapidly up and down wherever he sat, and his elegant hands trembled when he held a cigarette between his fingers, tapping the ashes into a teacup that my mother began to set aside for this exclusive purpose. Though he was a scientist by training, there was nothing rigid or predictable or orderly about him. He always seemed to be starving, walking through the door and announcing that he hadn’t had lunch, and then he would eat ravenously, reaching behind my mother to steal cutlets as she was frying them, before she had a chance to set them properly on a plate with red-onion salad. In private, my parents remarked that he was a brilliant student, a star at Jadavpur who had come to M.I.T. with an impressive assistantship, but Pranab Kaku was cavalier about his classes, skipping them with frequency. “These Americans are learning equations I knew at Usha’s age,” he would complain. He was stunned that my second-grade teacher didn’t assign any homework, and that at the age of seven I hadn’t yet been taught square roots or the concept of pi.

He appeared without warning, never phoning beforehand but simply knocking on the door the way people did in Calcutta and calling out “Boudi!” as he waited for my mother to let him in. Before we met him, I would return from school and find my mother with her purse in her lap and her trenchcoat on, desperate to escape the apartment where she had spent the day alone. But now I would find her in the kitchen, rolling out dough for luchis , which she normally made only on Sundays for my father and me, or putting up new curtains she’d bought at Woolworth’s. I did not know, back then, that Pranab Kaku’s visits were what my mother looked forward to all day, that she changed into a new sari and combed her hair in anticipation of his arrival, and that she planned, days in advance, the snacks she would serve him with such nonchalance. That she lived for the moment she heard him call out “Boudi!” from the porch, and that she was in a foul humor on the days he didn’t materialize.

It must have pleased her that I looked forward to his visits as well. He showed me card tricks and an optical illusion in which he appeared to be severing his own thumb with enormous struggle and strength, and taught me to memorize multiplication tables well before I had to learn them in school. His hobby was photography. He owned an expensive camera that required thought before you pressed the shutter, and I quickly became his favorite subject, round-faced, missing teeth, my thick bangs in need of a trim. They are still the pictures of myself I like best, for they convey that confidence of youth I no longer possess, especially in front of a camera. I remember having to run back and forth in Harvard Yard as he stood with the camera, trying to capture me in motion, or posing on the steps of university buildings and on the street and against the trunks of trees. There is only one photograph in which my mother appears; she is holding me as I sit straddling her lap, her head tilted toward me, her hands pressed to my ears as if to prevent me from hearing something. In that picture, Pranab Kaku’s shadow, his two arms raised at angles to hold the camera to his face, hovers in the corner of the frame, his darkened, featureless shape superimposed on one side of my mother’s body. It was always the three of us. I was always there when he visited. It would have been inappropriate for my mother to receive him in the apartment alone; this was something that went without saying.

They had in common all the things she and my father did not: a love of music, film, leftist politics, poetry. They were from the same neighborhood in North Calcutta, their family homes within walking distance, the façades familiar to them once the exact locations were described. They knew the same shops, the same bus and tram routes, the same holes-in-the-wall for the best jelabis and moghlai parathas . My father, on the other hand, came from a suburb twenty miles outside Calcutta, an area that my mother considered the wilderness, and even in her bleakest hours of homesickness she was grateful that my father had at least spared her a life in the stern house of her in-laws, where she would have had to keep her head covered with the end of her sari at all times and use an outhouse that was nothing but a raised platform with a hole, and where, in the rooms, there was not a single painting hanging on the walls. Within a few weeks, Pranab Kaku had brought his reel-to-reel over to our apartment, and he played for my mother medley after medley of songs from the Hindi films of their youth. They were cheerful songs of courtship, which transformed the quiet life in our apartment and transported my mother back to the world she’d left behind in order to marry my father. She and Pranab Kaku would try to recall which scene in which movie the songs were from, who the actors were and what they were wearing. My mother would describe Raj Kapoor and Nargis singing under umbrellas in the rain, or Dev Anand strumming a guitar on the beach in Goa. She and Pranab Kaku would argue passionately about these matters, raising their voices in playful combat, confronting each other in a way she and my father never did.

Because he played the part of a younger brother, she felt free to call him Pranab, whereas she never called my father by his first name. My father was thirty-seven then, nine years older than my mother. Pranab Kaku was twenty-five. My father was monkish by nature, a lover of silence and solitude. He had married my mother to placate his parents; they were willing to accept his desertion as long as he had a wife. He was wedded to his work, his research, and he existed in a shell that neither my mother nor I could penetrate. Conversation was a chore for him; it required an effort he preferred to expend at the lab. He disliked excess in anything, voiced no cravings or needs apart from the frugal elements of his daily routine: cereal and tea in the mornings, a cup of tea after he got home, and two different vegetable dishes every night with dinner. He did not eat with the reckless appetite of Pranab Kaku. My father had a survivor’s mentality. From time to time, he liked to remark, in mixed company and often with no relevant provocation, that starving Russians under Stalin had resorted to eating the glue off the back of their wallpaper. One might think that he would have felt slightly jealous, or at the very least suspicious, about the regularity of Pranab Kaku’s visits and the effect they had on my mother’s behavior and mood. But my guess is that my father was grateful to Pranab Kaku for the companionship he provided, freed from the sense of responsibility he must have felt for forcing her to leave India, and relieved, perhaps, to see her happy for a change.

In the summer, Pranab Kaku bought a navy-blue Volkswagen Beetle, and began to take my mother and me for drives through Boston and Cambridge, and soon outside the city, flying down the highway. He would take us to India Tea and Spices in Watertown, and one time he drove us all the way to New Hampshire to look at the mountains. As the weather grew hotter, we started going, once or twice a week, to Walden Pond. My mother always prepared a picnic of hard-boiled eggs and cucumber sandwiches, and talked fondly about the winter picnics of her youth, grand expeditions with fifty of her relatives, all taking the train into the West Bengal countryside. Pranab Kaku listened to these stories with interest, absorbing the vanishing details of her past. He did not turn a deaf ear to her nostalgia, like my father, or listen uncomprehending, like me. At Walden Pond, Pranab Kaku would coax my mother through the woods, and lead her down the steep slope to the water’s edge. She would unpack the picnic things and sit and watch us as we swam. His chest was matted with thick dark hair, all the way to his waist. He was an odd sight, with his pole-thin legs and a small, flaccid belly, like an otherwise svelte woman who has had a baby and not bothered to tone her abdomen. “You’re making me fat, Boudi,” he would complain after gorging himself on my mother’s cooking. He swam noisily, clumsily, his head always above the water; he didn’t know how to blow bubbles or hold his breath, as I had learned in swimming class. Wherever we went, any stranger would have naturally assumed that Pranab Kaku was my father, that my mother was his wife.

It is clear to me now that my mother was in love with him. He wooed her as no other man had, with the innocent affection of a brother-in-law. In my mind, he was just a family member, a cross between an uncle and a much older brother, for in certain respects my parents sheltered and cared for him in much the same way they cared for me. He was respectful of my father, always seeking his advice about making a life in the West, about setting up a bank account and getting a job, and deferring to his opinions about Kissinger and Watergate. Occasionally, my mother would tease him about women, asking about female Indian students at M.I.T., or showing him pictures of her younger cousins in India. “What do you think of her?” she would ask. “Isn’t she pretty?” She knew that she could never have Pranab Kaku for herself, and I suppose it was her attempt to keep him in the family. But, most important, in the beginning he was totally dependent on her, needing her for those months in a way my father never did in the whole history of their marriage. He brought to my mother the first and, I suspect, the only pure happiness she ever felt. I don’t think even my birth made her as happy. I was evidence of her marriage to my father, an assumed consequence of the life she had been raised to lead. But Pranab Kaku was different. He was the one totally unanticipated pleasure in her life.

In the fall of 1974, Pranab Kaku met a student at Radcliffe named Deborah, an American, and she began to accompany him to our house. I called Deborah by her first name, as my parents did, but Pranab Kaku taught her to call my father Shyamal Da and my mother Boudi, something with which Deborah gladly complied. Before they came to dinner for the first time, I asked my mother, as she was straightening up the living room, if I ought to address her as Deborah Kakima, turning her into an aunt as I had turned Pranab into an uncle. “What’s the point?” my mother said, looking back at me sharply. “In a few weeks, the fun will be over and she’ll leave him.” And yet Deborah remained by his side, attending the weekend parties that Pranab Kaku and my parents were becoming more involved with, gatherings that were exclusively Bengali with the exception of her. Deborah was very tall, taller than both my parents and nearly as tall as Pranab Kaku. She wore her long brass-colored hair center-parted, as my mother did, but it was gathered into a low ponytail instead of a braid, or it spilled messily over her shoulders and down her back in a way that my mother considered indecent. She wore small silver spectacles and not a trace of makeup, and she studied philosophy. I found her utterly beautiful, but according to my mother she had spots on her face, and her hips were too small.

For a while, Pranab Kaku still showed up once a week for dinner on his own, mostly asking my mother what she thought of Deborah. He sought her approval, telling her that Deborah was the daughter of professors at Boston College, that her father published poetry, and that both her parents had Ph.D.s. When he wasn’t around, my mother complained about Deborah’s visits, about having to make the food less spicy even though Deborah said she liked spicy food, and feeling embarrassed to put a fried fish head in the dal. Pranab Kaku taught Deborah to say khub bhalo and aacha and to pick up certain foods with her fingers instead of with a fork. Sometimes they ended up feeding each other, allowing their fingers to linger in each other’s mouth, causing my parents to look down at their plates and wait for the moment to pass. At larger gatherings, they kissed and held hands in front of everyone, and when they were out of earshot my mother would talk to the other Bengali women. “He used to be so different. I don’t understand how a person can change so suddenly. It’s just hell-heaven, the difference,” she would say, always using the English words for her self-concocted, backward metaphor.

The more my mother began to resent Deborah’s visits, the more I began to anticipate them. I fell in love with Deborah, the way young girls often fall in love with women who are not their mothers. I loved her serene gray eyes, the ponchos and denim wrap skirts and sandals she wore, her straight hair that she let me manipulate into all sorts of silly styles. I longed for her casual appearance; my mother insisted whenever there was a gathering that I wear one of my ankle-length, faintly Victorian dresses, which she referred to as maxis, and have party hair, which meant taking a strand from either side of my head and joining them with a barrette at the back. At parties, Deborah would, eventually, politely slip away, much to the relief of the Bengali women with whom she was expected to carry on a conversation, and she would play with me. I was older than all my parents’ friends’ children, but with Deborah I had a companion. She knew all about the books I read, about Pippi Longstocking and Anne of Green Gables. She gave me the sorts of gifts my parents had neither the money nor the inspiration to buy: a large book of Grimms’ fairy tales with watercolor illustrations on thick, silken pages, wooden puppets with hair fashioned from yarn. She told me about her family, three older sisters and two brothers, the youngest of whom was closer to my age than to hers. Once, after visiting her parents, she brought back three Nancy Drews, her name written in a girlish hand at the top of the first page, and an old toy she’d had, a small paper theatre set with interchangeable backdrops, the exterior of a castle and a ballroom and an open field. Deborah and I spoke freely in English, a language in which, by that age, I expressed myself more easily than Bengali, which I was required to speak at home. Sometimes she asked me how to say this or that in Bengali; once, she asked me what asobbho meant. I hesitated, then told her it was what my mother called me if I had done something extremely naughty, and Deborah’s face clouded. I felt protective of her, aware that she was unwanted, that she was resented, aware of the nasty things people said.

Outings in the Volkswagen now involved the four of us, Deborah in the front, her hand over Pranab Kaku’s while it rested on the gearshift, my mother and I in the back. Soon, my mother began coming up with reasons to excuse herself, headaches and incipient colds, and so I became part of a new triangle. To my surprise, my mother allowed me to go with them, to the Museum of Fine Arts and the Public Garden and the aquarium. She was waiting for the affair to end, for Deborah to break Pranab Kaku’s heart and for him to return to us, scarred and penitent. I saw no sign of their relationship foundering. Their open affection for each other, their easily expressed happiness, was a new and romantic thing to me. Having me in the back seat allowed Pranab Kaku and Deborah to practice for the future, to try on the idea of a family of their own. Countless photographs were taken of me and Deborah, of me sitting on Deborah’s lap, holding her hand, kissing her on the cheek. We exchanged what I believed were secret smiles, and in those moments I felt that she understood me better than anyone else in the world. Anyone would have said that Deborah would make an excellent mother one day. But my mother refused to acknowledge such a thing. I did not know at the time that my mother allowed me to go off with Pranab Kaku and Deborah because she was pregnant for the fifth time since my birth, and was so sick and exhausted and fearful of losing another baby that she slept most of the day. After ten weeks, she miscarried once again, and was advised by her doctor to stop trying.

By summer, there was a diamond on Deborah’s left hand, something my mother had never been given. Because his own family lived so far away, Pranab Kaku came to the house alone one day, to ask for my parents’ blessing before giving her the ring. He showed us the box, opening it and taking out the diamond nestled inside. “I want to see how it looks on someone,” he said, urging my mother to try it on, but she refused. I was the one who stuck out my hand, feeling the weight of the ring suspended at the base of my finger. Then he asked for a second thing: he wanted my parents to write to his parents, saying that they had met Deborah and that they thought highly of her. He was nervous, naturally, about telling his family that he intended to marry an American girl. He had told his parents all about us, and at one point my parents had received a letter from them, expressing appreciation for taking such good care of their son and for giving him a proper home in America. “It needn’t be long,” Pranab Kaku said. “Just a few lines. They’ll accept it more easily if it comes from you.” My father thought neither ill nor well of Deborah, never commenting or criticizing as my mother did, but he assured Pranab Kaku that a letter of endorsement would be on its way to Calcutta by the end of the week. My mother nodded her assent, but the following day I saw the teacup Pranab Kaku had used all this time as an ashtray in the kitchen garbage can, in pieces, and three Band-Aids taped to my mother’s hand.

Pranab Kaku’s parents were horrified by the thought of their only son marrying an American woman, and a few weeks later our telephone rang in the middle of the night: it was Mr. Chakraborty telling my father that they could not possibly bless such a marriage, that it was out of the question, that if Pranab Kaku dared to marry Deborah he would no longer acknowledge him as a son. Then his wife got on the phone, asking to speak to my mother, and attacked her as if they were intimate, blaming my mother for allowing the affair to develop. She said that they had already chosen a wife for him in Calcutta, that he’d left for America with the understanding that he’d go back after he had finished his studies, and marry this girl. They had bought the neighboring flat in their building for Pranab and his betrothed, and it was sitting empty, waiting for his return. “We thought we could trust you, and yet you have betrayed us so deeply,” his mother said, taking out her anger on a stranger in a way she could not with her son. “Is this what happens to people in America?” For Pranab Kaku’s sake, my mother defended the engagement, telling his mother that Deborah was a polite girl from a decent family. Pranab Kaku’s parents pleaded with mine to talk him out of the engagement, but my father refused, deciding that it was not their place to get embroiled in a situation that had nothing to do with them. “We are not his parents,” he told my mother. “We can tell him they don’t approve but nothing more.” And so my parents told Pranab Kaku nothing about how his parents had berated them, and blamed them, and threatened to disown Pranab Kaku, only that they had refused to give him their blessing. In the face of this refusal, Pranab Kaku shrugged. “I don’t care. Not everyone can be as open-minded as you,” he told my parents. “Your blessing is blessing enough.”

After the engagement, Pranab Kaku and Deborah began drifting out of our lives. They moved in together, to an apartment in Boston, in the South End, a part of the city my parents considered unsafe. We moved as well, to a house in Natick. Though my parents had bought the house, they occupied it as if they were still tenants, touching up scuff marks with leftover paint and reluctant to put holes in the walls, and every afternoon when the sun shone through the living-room window my mother closed the blinds so that our new furniture would not fade. A few weeks before the wedding, my parents invited Pranab Kaku to the house alone, and my mother prepared a special meal to mark the end of his bachelorhood. It would be the only Bengali aspect of the wedding; the rest of it would be strictly American, with a cake and a minister and Deborah in a long white dress and veil. There is a photograph of the dinner, taken by my father, the only picture, to my knowledge, in which my mother and Pranab Kaku appear together. The picture is slightly blurry; I remember Pranab Kaku explaining to my father how to work the camera, and so he is captured looking up from the kitchen table and the elaborate array of food my mother had prepared in his honor, his mouth open, his long arm outstretched and his finger pointing, instructing my father how to read the light meter or some such thing. My mother stands beside him, one hand placed on top of his head in a gesture of blessing, the first and last time she was to touch him in her life. “She will leave him,” my mother told her friends afterward. “He is throwing his life away.”

The wedding was at a church in Ipswich, with a reception at a country club. It was going to be a small ceremony, which my parents took to mean one or two hundred people as opposed to three or four hundred. My mother was shocked that fewer than thirty people had been invited, and she was more perplexed than honored that, of all the Bengalis Pranab Kaku knew by then, we were the only ones on the list. At the wedding, we sat, like the other guests, first on the hard wooden pews of the church and then at a long table that had been set up for lunch. Though we were the closest thing Pranab Kaku had to a family that day, we were not included in the group photographs that were taken on the grounds of the country club, with Deborah’s parents and grandparents and her many siblings, and neither my mother nor my father got up to make a toast. My mother did not appreciate the fact that Deborah had made sure that my parents, who did not eat beef, were given fish instead of filet mignon like everyone else. She kept speaking in Bengali, complaining about the formality of the proceedings, and the fact that Pranab Kaku, wearing a tuxedo, barely said a word to us because he was too busy leaning over the shoulders of his new American in-laws as he circled the table. As usual, my father said nothing in response to my mother’s commentary, quietly and methodically working though his meal, his fork and knife occasionally squeaking against the surface of the china, because he was accustomed to eating with his hands. He cleared his plate and then my mother’s, for she had pronounced the food inedible, and then he announced that he had overeaten and had a stomach ache. The only time my mother forced a smile was when Deborah appeared behind her chair, kissing her on the cheek and asking if we were enjoying ourselves. When the dancing started, my parents remained at the table, drinking tea, and after two or three songs they decided that it was time for us to go home, my mother shooting me looks to that effect across the room, where I was dancing in a circle with Pranab Kaku and Deborah and the other children at the wedding. I wanted to stay, and when, reluctantly, I walked over to where my parents sat Deborah followed me. “Boudi, let Usha stay. She’s having such a good time,” she said to my mother. “Lots of people will be heading back your way, someone can drop her off in a little while.” But my mother said no, I had had plenty of fun already, and forced me to put on my coat over my long puff-sleeved dress. As we drove home from the wedding I told my mother, for the first but not the last time in my life, that I hated her.

The following year, we received a birth announcement from the Chakrabortys, a picture of twin girls, which my mother did not paste into an album or display on the refrigerator door. The girls were named Srabani and Sabitri, but were called Bonny and Sara. Apart from a thank-you card for our wedding gift, it was their only communication; we were not invited to the new house in Marblehead, bought after Pranab Kaku got a high-paying job at Stone & Webster. For a while, my parents and their friends continued to invite the Chakrabortys to gatherings, but because they never came, or left after staying only an hour, the invitations stopped. Their absences were attributed, by my parents and their circle, to Deborah, and it was universally agreed that she had stripped Pranab Kaku not only of his origins but of his independence. She was the enemy, he was her prey, and their example was invoked as a warning, and as vindication, that mixed marriages were a doomed enterprise. Occasionally, they surprised everyone, appearing at a pujo for a few hours with their two identical little girls who barely looked Bengali and spoke only English and were being raised so differently from me and most of the other children. They were not taken to Calcutta every summer, they did not have parents who were clinging to another way of life and exhorting their children to do the same. Because of Deborah, they were exempt from all that, and for this reason I envied them. “Usha, look at you, all grown up and so pretty,” Deborah would say whenever she saw me, rekindling, if only for a minute, our bond of years before. She had cut off her beautiful long hair by then, and had a bob. “I bet you’ll be old enough to babysit soon,” she would say. “I’ll call you—the girls would love that.” But she never did.

I began to grow out of my girlhood, entering middle school and developing crushes on the American boys in my class. The crushes amounted to nothing; in spite of Deborah’s compliments, I was always overlooked at that age. But my mother must have picked up on something, for she forbade me to attend the dances that were held the last Friday of every month in the school cafeteria, and it was an unspoken law that I was not allowed to date. “Don’t think you’ll get away with marrying an American, the way Pranab Kaku did,” she would say from time to time. I was thirteen, the thought of marriage irrelevant to my life. Still, her words upset me, and I felt her grip on me tighten. She would fly into a rage when I told her I wanted to start wearing a bra, or if I wanted to go to Harvard Square with a friend. In the middle of our arguments, she often conjured Deborah as her antithesis, the sort of woman she refused to be. “If she were your mother, she would let you do whatever you wanted, because she wouldn’t care. Is that what you want, Usha, a mother who doesn’t care?” When I began menstruating, the summer before I started ninth grade, my mother gave me a speech, telling me that I was to let no boy touch me, and then she asked if I knew how a woman became pregnant. I told her what I had been taught in science, about the sperm fertilizing the egg, and then she asked if I knew how, exactly, that happened. I saw the terror in her eyes and so, though I knew that aspect of procreation as well, I lied, and told her it hadn’t been explained to us.

I began keeping other secrets from her, evading her with the aid of my friends. I told her I was sleeping over at a friend’s when really I went to parties, drinking beer and allowing boys to kiss me and fondle my breasts and press their erections against my hip as we lay groping on a sofa or the back seat of a car. I began to pity my mother; the older I got, the more I saw what a desolate life she led. She had never worked, and during the day she watched soap operas to pass the time. Her only job, every day, was to clean and cook for my father and me. We rarely went to restaurants, my father always pointing out, even in cheap ones, how expensive they were compared with eating at home. When my mother complained to him about how much she hated life in the suburbs and how lonely she felt, he said nothing to placate her. “If you are so unhappy, go back to Calcutta,” he would offer, making it clear that their separation would not affect him one way or the other. I began to take my cues from my father in dealing with her, isolating her doubly. When she screamed at me for talking too long on the telephone, or for staying too long in my room, I learned to scream back, telling her that she was pathetic, that she knew nothing about me, and it was clear to us both that I had stopped needing her, definitively and abruptly, just as Pranab Kaku had.

Then, the year before I went off to college, my parents and I were invited to the Chakrabortys’ home for Thanksgiving. We were not the only guests from my parents’ old Cambridge crowd; it turned out that Pranab Kaku and Deborah wanted to have a sort of reunion of all the people they had been friendly with back then. Normally, my parents did not celebrate Thanksgiving; the ritual of a large sit-down dinner and the foods that one was supposed to eat was lost on them. They treated it as if it were Memorial Day or Veterans Day—just another holiday in the American year. But we drove out to Marblehead, to an impressive stone-faced house with a semicircular gravel driveway clogged with cars. The house was a short walk from the ocean; on our way, we had driven by the harbor overlooking the cold, glittering Atlantic, and when we stepped out of the car we were greeted by the sound of gulls and waves. Most of the living-room furniture had been moved to the basement, and extra tables joined to the main one to form a giant U. They were covered with tablecloths, set with white plates and silverware, and had centerpieces of gourds. I was struck by the toys and dolls that were everywhere, dogs that shed long yellow hairs on everything, all the photographs of Bonny and Sara and Deborah decorating the walls, still more plastering the refrigerator door. Food was being prepared when we arrived, something my mother always frowned upon, the kitchen a chaos of people and smells and enormous dirtied bowls.

Deborah’s family, whom we remembered dimly from the wedding, was there, her parents and her brothers and sisters and their husbands and wives and boyfriends and babies. Her sisters were in their thirties, but, like Deborah, they could have been mistaken for college students, wearing jeans and clogs and fisherman sweaters, and her brother Matty, with whom I had danced in a circle at the wedding, was now a freshman at Amherst, with wide-set green eyes and wispy brown hair and a complexion that reddened easily. As soon as I saw Deborah’s siblings, joking with one another as they chopped and stirred things in the kitchen, I was furious with my mother for making a scene before we left the house and forcing me to wear a shalwar kameez. I knew they assumed, from my clothing, that I had more in common with the other Bengalis than with them. But Deborah insisted on including me, setting me to work peeling apples with Matty, and out of my parents’ sight I was given beer to drink. When the meal was ready, we were told where to sit, in an alternating boy-girl formation that made the Bengalis uncomfortable. Bottles of wine were lined up on the table. Two turkeys were brought out, one stuffed with sausage and one without. My mouth watered at the food, but I knew that afterward, on our way home, my mother would complain that it was all tasteless and bland. “Impossible,” my mother said, shaking her hand over the top of her glass when someone tried to pour her a little wine.

Deborah’s father, Gene, got up to say grace, and asked everyone at the table to join hands. He bowed his head and closed his eyes. “Dear Lord, we thank you today for the food we are about to receive,” he began. My parents were seated next to each other, and I was stunned to see that they complied, that my father’s brown fingers lightly clasped my mother’s pale ones. I noticed Matty seated on the other side of the room, and saw him glancing at me as his father spoke. After the chorus of amens, Gene raised his glass and said, “Forgive me, but I never thought I’d have the opportunity to say this: Here’s to Thanksgiving with the Indians.” Only a few people laughed at the joke.

Then Pranab Kaku stood up and thanked everyone for coming. He was relaxed from alcohol, his once wiry body beginning to thicken. He started to talk sentimentally about his early days in Cambridge, and then suddenly he recounted the story of meeting me and my mother for the first time, telling the guests about how he had followed us that afternoon. The people who did not know us laughed, amused by the description of the encounter, and by Pranab Kaku’s desperation. He walked around the room to where my mother was sitting and draped a lanky arm around her shoulder, forcing her, for a brief moment, to stand up. “This woman,” he declared, pulling her close to his side, “this woman hosted my first real Thanksgiving in America. It might have been an afternoon in May, but that first meal at Boudi’s table was Thanksgiving to me. If it weren’t for that meal, I would have gone back to Calcutta.” My mother looked away, embarrassed. She was thirty-eight, already going gray, and she looked closer to my father’s age than to Pranab Kaku’s; regardless of his waistline, he retained his handsome, carefree looks. Pranab Kaku went back to his place at the head of the table, next to Deborah, and concluded, “And if that had been the case I’d have never met you, my darling,” and he kissed her on the mouth in front of everyone, to much applause, as if it were their wedding day all over again.

After the turkey, smaller forks were distributed and orders were taken for three different kinds of pie, written on small pads by Deborah’s sisters, as if they were waitresses. After dessert, the dogs needed to go out, and Pranab Kaku volunteered to take them. “How about a walk on the beach?” he suggested, and Deborah’s side of the family agreed that that was an excellent idea. None of the Bengalis wanted to go, preferring to sit with their tea and cluster together, at last, at one end of the room, speaking freely after the forced chitchat with the Americans during the meal. Matty came over and sat in the chair beside me that was now empty, encouraging me to join the walk. When I hesitated, pointing to my inappropriate clothes and shoes but also aware of my mother’s silent fury at the sight of us together, he said, “I’m sure Deb can lend you something.” So I went upstairs, where Deborah gave me a pair of her jeans and a thick sweater and some sneakers, so that I looked like her and her sisters.

She sat on the edge of her bed, watching me change, as if we were girlfriends, and she asked if I had a boyfriend. When I told her no, she said, “Matty thinks you’re cute.”

“He told you?”

“No, but I can tell.”

As I walked back downstairs, emboldened by this information, in the jeans I’d had to roll up and in which I felt finally like myself, I noticed my mother lift her eyes from her teacup and stare at me, but she said nothing, and off I went, with Pranab Kaku and his dogs and his in-laws, along a road and then down some steep wooden steps to the water. Deborah and one of her sisters stayed behind, to begin the cleanup and see to the needs of those who remained. Initially, we all walked together, in a single row across the sand, but then I noticed Matty hanging back, and so the two of us trailed behind, the distance between us and the others increasing. We began flirting, talking of things I no longer remember, and eventually we wandered into a rocky inlet and Matty fished a joint out of his pocket. We turned our backs to the wind and smoked it, our cold fingers touching in the process, our lips pressed to the same damp section of the rolling paper. At first I didn’t feel any effect, but then, listening to him talk about the band he was in, I was aware that his voice sounded miles away, and that I had the urge to laugh, even though what he was saying was not terribly funny. It felt as if we were apart from the group for hours, but when we wandered back to the sand we could still see them, walking out onto a rocky promontory to watch the sun set. It was dark by the time we all headed back to the house, and I dreaded seeing my parents while I was still high. But when we got there Deborah told me that my parents, feeling tired, had left, agreeing to let someone drive me home later. A fire had been lit and I was told to relax and have more pie as the leftovers were put away and the living room slowly put back in order. Of course, it was Matty who drove me home, and sitting in my parents’ driveway I kissed him, at once thrilled and terrified that my mother might walk onto the lawn in her nightgown and discover us. I gave Matty my phone number, and for a few weeks I thought of him constantly, and hoped foolishly that he would call.

In the end, my mother was right, and fourteen years after that Thanksgiving, after twenty-three years of marriage, Pranab Kaku and Deborah got divorced. It was he who had strayed, falling in love with a married Bengali woman, destroying two families in the process. The other woman was someone my parents knew, though not very well. Deborah was in her forties by then, Bonny and Sara away at college. In her shock and grief, it was my mother whom Deborah turned to, calling and weeping into the phone. Somehow, through all the years, she had continued to regard us as quasi in-laws, sending flowers when my grandparents died, and giving me a compact edition of the O.E.D. as a college-graduation present. “You knew him so well. How could he do something like this?” Deborah asked my mother. And then, “Did you know anything about it?” My mother answered truthfully that she did not. Their hearts had been broken by the same man, only my mother’s had long ago mended, and in an odd way, as my parents approached their old age, she and my father had grown fond of each other, out of habit if nothing else. I believe my absence from the house, once I left for college, had something to do with this, because over the years, when I visited, I noticed a warmth between my parents that had not been there before, a quiet teasing, a solidarity, a concern when one of them fell ill. My mother and I had also made peace; she had accepted the fact that I was not only her daughter but a child of America as well. Slowly, she accepted that I dated one American man, and then another, and then yet another, that I slept with them, and even that I lived with one though we were not married. She welcomed my boyfriends into our home and when things didn’t work out she told me I would find someone better. After years of being idle, she decided, when she turned fifty, to get a degree in library science at a nearby university.

On the phone, Deborah admitted something that surprised my mother: that all these years she had felt hopelessly shut out of a part of Pranab Kaku’s life. “I was so horribly jealous of you back then, for knowing him, understanding him in a way I never could. He turned his back on his family, on all of you, really, but I still felt threatened. I could never get over that.” She told my mother that she had tried, for years, to get Pranab Kaku to reconcile with his parents, and that she had also encouraged him to maintain ties with other Bengalis, but he had resisted. It had been Deborah’s idea to invite us to their Thanksgiving; ironically, the other woman had been there, too. “I hope you don’t blame me for taking him away from your lives, Boudi. I always worried that you did.”

My mother assured Deborah that she blamed her for nothing. She confessed nothing to Deborah about her own jealousy of decades before, only that she was sorry for what had happened, that it was a sad and terrible thing for their family. She did not tell Deborah that a few weeks after Pranab Kaku’s wedding, while I was at a Girl Scout meeting and my father was at work, she had gone through the house, gathering up all the safety pins that lurked in drawers and tins, and adding them to the few fastened to her bracelets. When she’d found enough, she pinned them to her sari one by one, attaching the front piece to the layer of material underneath, so that no one would be able to pull the garment off her body. Then she took a can of lighter fluid and a box of kitchen matches and stepped outside, into our chilly back yard, which was full of leaves needing to be raked. Over her sari she was wearing a knee-length lilac trenchcoat, and to any neighbor she must have looked as though she’d simply stepped out for some fresh air. She opened up the coat and removed the tip from the can of lighter fluid and doused herself, then buttoned and belted the coat. She walked over to the garbage barrel behind our house and disposed of the fluid, then returned to the middle of the yard with the box of matches in her coat pocket. For nearly an hour she stood there, looking at our house, trying to work up the courage to strike a match. It was not I who saved her, or my father, but our next-door neighbor, Mrs. Holcomb, with whom my mother had never been particularly friendly. She came out to rake the leaves in her yard, calling out to my mother and remarking how beautiful the sunset was. “I see you’ve been admiring it for a while now,” she said. My mother agreed, and then she went back into the house. By the time my father and I came home in the early evening, she was in the kitchen boiling rice for our dinner, as if it were any other day.

My mother told Deborah none of this. It was to me that she confessed, after my own heart was broken by a man I’d hoped to marry. ♦

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essay on my father

আমার পিতা উপর প্রবন্ধ

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essay on my mother and father

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my role model essay on my father

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essay on my aim

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essay on my school

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Essay on My Father in 300, 400, 500, 600, 700 Words for Class 1-10

‘My Father’ is a very important essay topic for all classes and grades students. That’s why we are sharing all this Essay on My Father for students of class 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, and 12. You just need to find the perfect one for yourself. We have all the formats essay here. We are even sharing a 10 lines essay on my father too.

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Essay on My Father in 300 Words for Kids

Introduction:

My father is the most important person in my life. Whatever I am doing is just because of him. He has the biggest influence on my life. I want to follow in his every footstep.

But he is a person with lots of virtue that I can’t pursue in my life. But still, I try my best to follow him. Today I am sharing some information about my father here.

My biological father is a typical Indian man with 5 feet 7 inches in height. His name is Navin Patekar. He is a businessman who runs an IT company based in Delhi. But he is very much passionate about this industry, but he never forces us to take the same job.

He suggests that we should follow our dreams. He is a very inspiring character. There are lots of lessons that I take from his life. He came from a village of UP and he had nothing when he started.

But now he has made a successful business, bought a house in Delhi and is doing great. After doing all these things he has not forgotten his native village. He goes thereafter every two months. I visit the village sometimes too.

We have lots of relatives there and I love to spend time with my cousins . My father is very aware of his health and fitness. That’s why he wakes up early in the morning. Then he goes for a morning walk . He is a gym member too. He goes there three days a week.

Conclusion:

That’s all about my father. He is the most important person in my life. I love him a lot. I think my life would never be like this without him. He has the highest contribution to my life.

My Dad Essay in 400 Words

Introduction:

Every father is special and he is one of the most important persons in our life. Most of the time we talk about the love and affection of mothers for kids. But the father also has a huge love for his kids.

We ignore that topic most of the time. But I can realize that when I stay with my father. Today I am going to tell you about my dad. He is an amazing person.

My father’s name is Vinay Kumar. He is a school teacher by profession. My dad was always passionate about teaching and that’s why he has taken this profession seriously. He teaches in the nearest high school, I study in the same school.

He is a 45 years old gentleman. My father is loved by everyone in the society because of his honesty and truthfulness. I am a proud son of his. He is a very hard-working person. After his job, he works in the garden .

We together have made this garden in front of our home . I really feel great when I work in the garden. He is a very regular person following a strict routine. He doesn’t do anything without the schedule. He prays regularly, gets up early in the morning , and does his job seriously.

My Dad My Hero:

There is no doubt that my dad is my hero . There are so many reasons behind it. First of all, we as a family have faced a lot of hard times, but he was the person who took challenges and faced them with lots of courage and strength.

I don’t think it would be possible without his presence in my life. He is the best teacher in my life. He teaches me some moral things that are highly important in life. He is the only person in the family who supports financially.

We are totally dependent on him. His education and suggestion are helping me to become a better person in life.

I think my father is the best human alive in the world. He is popular in the neighborhood because of his honesty. Everyone loves him and respects him. As his son, people love me too.

That’s huge respect for me. He loves me more than anything in the world and I love him a lot too. My dad is the best dad, no doubt.

Essay on My Father in 500 Words

Everyone talks about the love and affection of a mother in life. But most of the time we ignore the love and feelings for the father in all the shows, movies, and other things. Father is that person who gives us strength and support from the back.

Whatever we achieve in our life, the father has the biggest contribution to that. Most of the fathers are the ideal person for their kids. I am sharing about my father here.

About My Father:

My father is a farmer and we live in a village . He is a hard-working person. I am proud of my father. There are so many reasons why I am proud of him. First of all, I want to tell you about his life. He wakes up early in the morning and after breakfast, he takes all the cows on the field.

We have five big cows and we make a good amount of money selling milk. Then he goes to the paddy field. He works there till 2 PM. Then he comes back home and takes a shower and eats his lunch. Then he brings the cows back home.

And sometimes in the early morning, he takes milk from the cows. In the afternoon, he goes to the village market to buy all the necessary things. Then he comes back home. He goes to sleep at 10 PM. He is living a very simple life. But he is a hard-working person.

He is an honest man and that’s why all the people around us believe him a lot. Everyone gives him respect and loves him. Our neighborhood is amazing. Everyone helps each other in need. My father is also very helpful and dedicated to the people.

Why My Father is a Hero?

I consider my father as a hero. There are so many reasons behind that. The first reason is he is the only person who makes money for the family . We are seven members of the family, but only he is supporting us financially.

We four siblings are students and he needs to spend a good amount of money for us every month. It’s not easy for him. But he always does that successfully. I can’t even imagine how hard working he is. He is a peaceful person who loves to live peacefully.

He never buys any expensive things for himself. He tries his best to make us happy. I feel lucky and great to become the son of him. I have never seen a person that much dedicated to his family.

His biggest dream is to make all of us educated. And we are dedicated to making his dream true. We have great bonding. He shares everything with me.

Conclusion:

I think my father is the person I love most. And I know he also loves me a lot. He is the most important person in my life. Whatever I am doing has been possible because of his contribution in my life.

Essay on My Father in 600 Words

My father is a person who came from a very poor family and he succeeded to become a successful businessman. He is an inspiring character for me. I love him a lot and I love to talk about him. Everyone’s father is a hero for them.

Father has some amazing contributions to our life that anyone can’t contribute like this. Everyone loves their father, so do I. I am going to share all the information about my father.

My father’s name is Sanjay Sinha. He is a businessman. He has a very inspiring story. He was from a very simple village located in Bihar. He came to Mumbai when he was only 20 years old to pursue his college education .

But he has ended as a successful mechanical engineer and then established his own business based Mumbai. I am a proud son of his. In the beginning, he did lots of hard work and faced difficult challenges.

He managed to overcome all the challenges and became a self-made successful person. I follow him in every step of my life. He has been an influencer for me and for lots of youth in our area. He is an honest person and well known in society.

He has a good fan following on Facebook . He used to join different seminars and give speeches. Everyone loves him a lot because of his honesty and dedication.

He is My Role Model:

My father is the biggest role model for me. I follow him and I love to learn different things from him. He woke up early in the morning and I followed him. This habit changed my life entirely. I realized I get a long day to do all the work when I am an early bird.

We go for a walk together and at that time we talk about different things. He always inspires me to do my best. I love to listen about his business and all the stories about his failure and then success. He shares all these stories with me.

Importance of My Father in My Life:

It is not possible to describe in words how important a father is in his son’s life. I can’t imagine a single day without my dad. I always want to keep myself with him. He is my inspiration and motivation.

I love my father most in the world. He also loves me a lot. Whatever he does all day, but at the end of the day, he finds time to spend with me. We always have good times.

Sometimes we play different types of games. When he stays on leave, he takes me out, sometimes we even go to watch movies. He loves watching animation movies, because of me.

Things I Learned from My Father:

There are lots of things that I have learned from my father. The first thing is hard work. He always tells us that nothing is easy in life. You have to work hard to achieve something. And I believed in this quote.

I know I have to work hard to make my dream come true. He teaches me to become honest and kind. He is very helpful and I follow him.

I love to help poor people too. I know luck could change anytime, and I can be on a different side overnight. So I have to be nice with the poor people.

That’s all about my father. He is a living legend and a great personality for me. I get lots of inspiration from his life. All of his success stories give me goosebumps and end of the day, I want to become a successful businessman like him.

Essay on My Father in 700 Words

Father is that person who sacrifices all of his happiness for his kids. My father is not different. My dad is a very simple and happy person. He is the most important person in the family and we are going ahead because of his support.

I can tell that he is acting like a pillar of a huge building. I have lots of things to tell about my father and I will share them here. My father is a superman, a hero, and a role model for me. Always followed him and I never regretted that.

My father’s name is Jahid Hasan and he is an accountant in a government office. He is very fond of his colleagues and other officemates. He is known in our area because of his honesty, dedication, and a hard-working person.

He loves working. That’s why he spends most of his time doing things that add benefit to our life. I am a happy boy and my father is a happy family, all that has been possible just because of my father. His contribution is uncountable for the entire family.

We all are having a good life because of his hard work. I always feel special about him and feel proud to have such an amazing dad. He is always super busy due to office work. But still, he finds time to play with me and take me out.

He is a movie lover. He loves watching old cinemas. When he gets some free time he starts watching them. The whole family goes to watch a movie in the theatre sometimes. He has some amazing hobbies and he is very passionate about all these things.

My Father is Different:

I can claim that my dad is different from others. I have some good reasons. When I was a kid, he started acting with me as a friend, and still, now we are the same. I think he has been able to keep that bonding between us strongly.

He is the only person who is earning in the family, but he never showed any ego or any anger to anyone. He is a soft-hearted person, but when he faces any challenges he can face that with lots of strength and courage. He was a great student in his student life and made himself successful by all his hard work.

My Father is My Hero:

He is a hero for me. I have loved to follow him since childhood. I feel great when I see my father and think about what he is doing. A couple of years ago, my village faced a huge flood. My father went there with a huge collection of food and medicine.

He worked there for almost a week and distributed them to villagers. He took the initiative on his own and worked very hard for that. I can remember, when he came back he was extremely tired. He loves to help people and work for society. He is connected with lots of social welfare groups too.

My Father as a Friend:

He is a good friend too. I can share all my things with him. From my childhood, I am sharing everything. And that has made everything easy between us. We don’t have any gap. He is always a smiling person and he loves to spend time with me.

It has made us closer. I also enjoy spending time with my dad. She shares different types of stories and moral things that help me to grow better. I have realized in my life that all of his words came true. That’s why I always obeyed him and I never regretted because of that.

Why Do I Like My Father?

There are so many reasons that are why I love him. First of all, he is my father and my best friend. He is the most important person in the family.

Whatever I am doing now is just because of him. He is a person with a smile and never a complaint. He supports everyone and gives the courage to fight against all odd things.

I love my father a lot. And it’s not possible to count the son’s love for his father. And I know my father also loves me a lot. I think he is the best dad ever.

10 Lines Essay on My Father

Read in this essay on my father in 10 lines for all class students.

1. Father is the most important character in human life. He has the highest contribution to a son’s life.

2. My father is an ideal father that I follow every time.

3. His name is Jahid Ahmed and he is a school teacher.

4. My father is 45 years old and his height is 5 feet and 6 inches.

5. He is a very hard-working and honest person.

6. He is very good at his profession.

7. I love him a lot and I know he loves me a lot too.

8. He is the person who is making money to maintain the family.

9. I love spending time with him.

10. I learn lots of things from him. He is my hero.

How can I write about my father?

If you want to write about your father, you need to think a bit. It could seem hard at the beginning but when you will think a bit, you will find that it’s a very easy and simple topic to write about. We have provided some amazing examples. They can give you some ideas to write about your father.

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Short Essay on My Father [100, 200, 400 Words] With PDF

Essays on ‘Father’ is a very common English writing comprehension test for many exams. In this lesson today, I will discuss how to write short essays on one of the most important people of our life: Father.

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Short Essay on Father in 100 Words

My father is a kind and caring person. He is my hero. He works hard and takes care of our family. He always motivates me to study well, work hard and chase my dreams. Whenever I am sick, he stays beside me and takes care of me alongside my mother.

My father is a loving husband to my mother and a filial son to his parents. He helps my mother with the household chores and spends a lot of time with my grandparents. He has never differentiated between a son and a daughter and treats me and my sibling equally. On weekends, he takes us out for picnics, movies, and other fun activities. My father is a role model for me.

Short Essay on Father in 200 Words

My father is an ideal man. He is kind and caring. He works hard and takes care of our family. He is a strong-willed person who doesn’t fear challenges and never gives up. He motivates me to study well and work hard towards my dreams. My father is my best friend. I share all my worries and problems with him and he always comes up with the best solutions. When I am sad, he comforts me and gives me strength. When I am sick, he stays beside me and takes care of me alongside my mother.

My father is a loving husband and a filial son. He helps my mother with the household work and shares her load. He values her a lot and never fights with her. He also spends a lot of time with my grandparents and takes them to visit their old friends whenever he has time. He also takes us out for family picnics and outings on weekends.

My father has never differentiated between a son and a daughter and treats both me and my sibling equally. He has set an example for us by being an upright, compassionate and genuine human being. He has taught us to be honest, respectful, and kind. My father is my role model and I love him very much.

Short Essay on Father in 400 Words

My father is the backbone of our family. He is a kind, caring and compassionate person. He is a teacher by profession and is well-respected by his students and colleagues. He works hard and takes care of our family. My father is strong-willed and optimistic. He is not afraid of facing challenges and doesn’t give up no matter how difficult a situation is.

He motivates me to study well and work hard towards my dreams. My father is also my best friend. He listens to whatever I have to say. I can share all my worries and problems with him and he always comes up with the best solutions. When I am not in a good mood, he comforts me. When I am sick, he takes care of me. Even when he returns home tired, he makes sure to sit with us and have a nice talk.

My father is a generous person. Being a teacher, he has come across many students who want to learn but do not have the financial capacity to support their studies. For them, he has given lessons for free and even helped them financially.

He is very kind to the poor and needy. He helps them and does as much as possible to support them. My father is a helpful person and is always ready to extend a helping hand whenever our neighbours are in some kind of trouble. I am very proud of him.

My father is an ideal husband and son. He helps my mother with the household chores and shares the load. He values her, listens to her thoughts, ideas and opinions and never fights with her. They always make sure that our home environment is peaceful and harmonious.

My father is also a filial son who spends a lot of time taking care of his parents. He takes my grandparents out to the park and to visit their old friends whenever he has time. On weekends, he takes us out for picnics, movies and other fun activities. When my sibling or I have exams, my father stays up at night to guide us and help us with our studies.

My father has never differentiated between a son and a daughter and treats both me and my sibling equally. He has taught us to be upright, honest, respectful and kind. He leads by example and has shown us how to be selfless, brave and patient. My father is my role model and I love him dearly.

Hopefully, from the session above, you have gotten a holistic idea of how you can write short essays on ‘Father’ in a concise form. In this lesson, I have adopted a simplistic approach and easy language to write these essays so that all kinds of students can understand those without any difficulties. If you still have any doubts regarding this session, kindly let me know through some quick comments.

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My Father Essay | Essay On My Father My Role Model for Students and Children

আমার পিতা রচনা | ছাত্র এবং শিশুদের জন্য আমার বাবা আমার রোল মডেলের উপর রচনা বাংলায় | My Father Essay | Essay On My Father My Role Model for Students and Children In Bengali - 2600 শব্দসমূহে

আমার পিতার উপর রচনা: পিতারা একটি সন্তানের জীবনে গুরুত্বপূর্ণ। পিতারা বিভিন্ন ধরণের এবং তাদের সন্তানদের সাথে তাদের সম্পর্ক। যাইহোক, তারা মায়েদের সাথে একটি শিশুর জীবনে একটি গুরুত্বপূর্ণ প্রভাব তৈরি করে। কন্যারা তাদের পিতার সাথে নিরাপত্তার অনুভূতি অনুভব করে এবং পুত্ররা তাদের আচরণকে তাদের পিতার উপর মডেল করে। বাবারা আমাদের সাপোর্ট সিস্টেমের একটি অপরিহার্য অংশ। মায়েদের পাশাপাশি, তারা আমাদের গুরুত্বপূর্ণ মূল্যবোধ এবং দক্ষতা শেখায়। শিশুরা বেড়ে ওঠার সাথে সাথে যে সম্পর্কগুলি তৈরি করে তার উপর তাদের প্রভাব রয়েছে এবং আমরা আজকের মতো আমাদের তৈরি করতে সাহায্য করে। নীচে তালিকাভুক্ত দুটি প্রবন্ধ আছে. বর্ধিত রচনাটি 400-500 শব্দ এবং 200 শব্দের একটি ছোট রচনা নিয়ে গঠিত।

আপনি নিবন্ধ, ঘটনা, মানুষ, খেলাধুলা, প্রযুক্তি সম্পর্কে আরও অনেক রচনা পড়তে পারেন।

আমার পিতার উপর দীর্ঘ রচনা

প্রত্যেকে তাদের পিতাকে ভিন্নভাবে বর্ণনা করবে। তাদের সকলেরই বিভিন্ন সমীকরণ এবং অভিজ্ঞতা রয়েছে। আমার বাবা এবং আমি সবসময় কথা বলতে পারি না কিন্তু একে অপরকে ভালভাবে বুঝি, যদিও অনেকেই হয়তো আছেন যারা তাদের বাবার সাথে অনেক কিছু নিয়ে কথা বলেন।

বাবারা কন্যাদের মধ্যে নিরাপত্তা এবং নিরাপত্তার অনুভূতি প্রদান করে বলে বলা হয়, যা আমার বাবা সবসময় আমাকে দিয়ে গেছেন। অনেক গবেষণায় দেখা যায় যে মেয়েরা এমন একজন পুরুষের সন্ধান করে যে তাদের বাবা তাদের সাথে কেমন ছিল তার অনুরূপ হতে পারে; যদি তিনি লালনপালন করেন বা শক্তিশালী হন। ছেলেরা তাদের পিতাদেরকে রোল মডেল হিসাবে দেখে, যাদের বড় হয়ে তাদের মত হওয়া উচিত এবং তাদের আচরণ অনুকরণ করা উচিত।

আমার বাবা সবসময় আমাকে আমার স্বপ্নের পিছনে ছুটতে এবং আমার আগ্রহের বিষয়গুলি অনুসরণ করতে আমাকে সমর্থন করেছেন, ঝুঁকিগুলি জেনেও। তিনি বিশ্বাস করেন যে তাদের কাছ থেকে শিক্ষা নেওয়ার জন্য প্রত্যেককে অবশ্যই ভুল করতে হবে। বাবারা এইভাবে ঝুঁকি গ্রহণকারী হিসাবে পরিচিত। তারা সমস্যা সমাধানের ক্ষমতা তৈরি করতে সাহায্য করে যাতে আমরা আরও ভাল করতে পারি।

অনাদিকাল থেকে, বাবারা কীভাবে উপার্জনকারী এবং মায়েদের অবশ্যই বাড়ির যত্ন নেওয়া উচিত সে সম্পর্কে অনেক স্টেরিওটাইপ রয়েছে। নারীবাদের ক্রমবর্ধমান যুগে, মায়েরা এখন কাজ করছেন এবং ক্যারিয়ারের সন্ধান করছেন, যখন বাবারা পরিবারের যত্ন নিতে সাহায্য করেন। আমার বাবা সবসময় আমার মায়ের কর্মজীবনকে সমর্থন করেছেন এবং কাজ এবং বাড়ির মধ্যে যে ভারসাম্য রয়েছে তার প্রশংসা করেছেন। তিনি তাকে কাজের সাথে সাহায্য করেন এবং এমনকি যখন তিনি কাজে ব্যস্ত থাকেন তখন টেবিলে খাবার আছে তা নিশ্চিত করেন। আমার বাবা আমাকে শিখিয়েছেন যে পরিবার অপরিহার্য, এবং যাই হোক না কেন, আমার পরিবার সবসময় আমার জন্য থাকবে।

শিক্ষার্থীরা এখান থেকে মাই ফাদারের 10 লাইন এবং মাই ফাদারের অনুচ্ছেদ পেতে পারে।

যদিও কিছু বাবাকে কঠোর এবং শৃঙ্খলাবদ্ধ বলে মনে হতে পারে, কারণ তারা চায় যে তাদের সন্তানরা বাস্তব জগতের সাথে কীভাবে মোকাবিলা করতে হয় তা শিখুক। তাদের সন্তানদের, সম্পর্ক গঠনের ক্ষেত্রে পিতাদের একটি অপরিহার্য ভূমিকা পালন করতে হয়, কারণ তারা তাদের বাবা পরিবারের সাথে কীভাবে আচরণ করে তার দ্বারা প্রভাবিত হয়। আমার বাবা সবসময় আমার ভাই এবং আমাকে সমান হিসাবে ব্যবহার করেছেন এবং সবসময় আমার মাকে সম্মানের সাথে ব্যবহার করেছেন। মা হিসাবে, তারাও, একটি শিশুর মানসিক সুস্থতার একটি গুরুত্বপূর্ণ অংশ। শিশুরা এখনও তাদের মা এবং বাবাকে গর্বিত করতে চায়। তারা কঠিন সময়ে তাদের পিতাদের কাছ থেকে মানসিক এবং শারীরিক সান্ত্বনা খোঁজে এবং নিয়ম প্রয়োগের জন্য তাদের দিকে তাকিয়ে থাকে।

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বাবারাও সন্তানের আত্মসম্মান গড়ে তুলতে সাহায্য করে। আমি যাকে নিয়ে গর্বিত হতে এবং আমি যা বিশ্বাস করি তার পক্ষে দাঁড়াতে আমার বাবা আমাকে সাহায্য করেছেন। তিনি আমাকে নিজের প্রতি সত্য হতে শিখিয়েছেন। একজন বাবা পরিবারের ভরণপোষণ থেকে শুরু করে তাদের সন্তানদের নিরাপদ কিনা তা নিশ্চিত করা পর্যন্ত সব ধরনের দায়িত্ব নেন।

বাবা দিবস আমাদের জীবনে পিতৃত্ব এবং তাদের প্রভাব উদযাপন করার মতো একটি দিন। তারা আমাদের জন্য প্রতিদিন যা করেন তার জন্য আমাদের পিতাদের ধন্যবাদ জানানো হয়। এটি জুন মাসে পড়ে, তৃতীয় রবিবার। 2020 সালের 21শে জুন বাবা দিবস পালিত হবে। বাবারা আমাদের জীবনে অপরিহার্য ব্যক্তিত্ব।

আমার পিতার উপর সংক্ষিপ্ত রচনা

বাবারা আমাদের পরিবারের সবচেয়ে প্রভাবশালী ব্যক্তিদের একজন। প্রত্যেক বাবাই অনন্য এবং বিশেষ। তারা আমাদেরকে নির্ভরযোগ্য এবং যত্নশীল হতে শেখায়। মেয়েরা তাদের বাবাদের কাছে নিরাপদ এবং নিরাপদ বোধ করে, ঠিক যেমন আমার বাবা আমাকে অনুভব করেন। ছেলেরা তাদের বাবার মতো হতে চায় এবং তাদের মতো আচরণ করার চেষ্টা করে। আমরা কার সাথে বন্ধুত্ব করি এবং আমরা আমাদের চারপাশের লোকেদের সাথে কীভাবে যোগাযোগ করি তা বাবাদের প্রভাবিত করে।

আমার বাবা আমাকে সবসময় স্বাধীন এবং সাহসী হতে শিখিয়েছেন। বাবারা আমাদের জীবনে আরও ঝুঁকি নিয়ে সমস্যা সমাধানে সাহায্য করেন। আজ, বাবারা কেবল উপার্জনকারী নন। অনেক মা তাদের কর্মজীবন অনুসরণ করেন যখন পিতারাও বাড়ির চারপাশে সাহায্য করেন এবং মায়েদের সমর্থন করেন। আমার বাবা সবসময় আমার মায়ের কাজকে সম্মান করেছেন এবং তাকে বাড়ির চারপাশে সাহায্য করেছেন।

পিতারা কঠিন বলে মনে হতে পারে, কিন্তু যখন আমাদের প্রয়োজন হয় তখন তারা আমাদের জন্য থাকে। আমার বাবা সবসময় একটি অবিচ্ছিন্ন সমর্থন এবং একই সময়ে, নিয়ম প্রয়োগ করেছেন যাতে আমি আরও দায়িত্বশীল হতে পারি। প্রতি বছর জুনের তৃতীয় রবিবার, বাবা দিবস পালন করা হয় আমাদের বাবাদের জন্য তারা যা করেন তার জন্য ধন্যবাদ জানাতে। এটি একটি কার্ড বা একটি উপহার বা এমনকি একটি সাধারণ ইচ্ছা হোক না কেন, আপনার পিতাদের ধন্যবাদ.

শিক্ষার্থীরা এখান থেকে মাই ফাদার এবং ফাদার্স ডে প্রবন্ধের অনুচ্ছেদও পেতে পারে।

আমার বাবার প্রবন্ধ সম্পর্কে 10 পয়েন্ট

বাবারা আমাদের জীবনে একটি গুরুত্বপূর্ণ ব্যক্তিত্ব।
বাবারা তাদের মেয়েদের প্রতি নিরাপত্তা ও নিরাপত্তার অনুভূতি প্রদান করে।
ছেলেরা তাদের বাবাদের রোল মডেল হিসাবে দেখে এবং তাদের মতো হতে চায়।
আমরা যে ধরনের বন্ধুত্ব এবং সম্পর্ক তৈরি করি তা বাবারা সবসময় প্রভাবিত করে।
পিতামাতারা আজ স্টেরিওটাইপগুলি ভেঙে দিচ্ছেন যে কেবল পুরুষরাই তাদের ক্যারিয়ার অনুসরণ করতে পারে; বাবারা আজ বাড়ির চারপাশে সাহায্য করে যখন মা কাজ করে।
বাস্তব জগতে কীভাবে বাঁচতে হয় তা শিশুদের শেখানোর জন্য পিতারা কঠোর এবং শৃঙ্খলাবদ্ধ আচরণ করেন।
মায়েদের মতো বাবারাও তাদের সন্তানের সুস্থতার জন্য গুরুত্বপূর্ণ।
তারা কঠিন সময়ে শারীরিক এবং মানসিক সান্ত্বনা প্রদান করে এবং আত্মসম্মান গড়ে তুলতে সাহায্য করে।
পিতারা নিশ্চিত করেন যে তাদের সন্তানদের একটি ভাল এবং নিরাপদ জীবন রয়েছে।
বাবা দিবস আমাদের জীবনে তাদের প্রভাবকে স্মরণ করতে জুনের তৃতীয় রবিবারে পড়ে। 2020 সালে বাবা দিবস 21শে জুন পালিত হবে।
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আমার পিতার রচনা সম্পর্কে প্রায়শই জিজ্ঞাসিত প্রশ্নাবলী

প্রশ্ন 1. একজন বাবা কীভাবে তাদের সন্তানের সম্পর্ককে প্রভাবিত করে?

উত্তর: অধ্যয়নগুলি পরামর্শ দেয় যে কন্যারা এমন একজন ব্যক্তির সন্ধান করে যার মধ্যে তাদের পিতার মতো গুণাবলী রয়েছে। কন্যারা তাদের পিতার দ্বারা নিরাপত্তার অনুভূতি প্রদান করে। ছেলেরা তাদের পিতাকে তাদের আদর্শ হিসাবে দেখে এবং তাদের মতো আচরণ করার চেষ্টা করে। এইভাবে উভয়ই এই কারণগুলির উপর ভিত্তি করে তাদের সম্পর্কের ভিত্তি করে।

প্রশ্ন 2. বাড়িতে বাবা কি ভূমিকা পালন করেন?

উত্তর: আজ, অনেক অভিভাবক স্টেরিওটাইপগুলি ভাঙছেন। মায়েরাও তাদের কেরিয়ার অনুসরণ করে যখন বাবা তাদের সমর্থন করে এবং বাড়িতে সাহায্য করে।

প্রশ্ন 3. কেন বাবা দিবস পালন করা হয়?

উত্তর: আমাদের বাবারা আমাদের জন্য যা করেছেন তা স্মরণ করার জন্য আমরা বাবা দিবস উদযাপন করি। এটি পিতৃত্বের চেতনা এবং আমাদের জীবনে পিতাদের প্রভাবকে চিহ্নিত করার জন্য।

প্রশ্ন 4. বাবা দিবস কবে পালিত হয়?

উত্তর: বাবা দিবস জুন মাসে, তৃতীয় রবিবার। 2020 সালে বাবা দিবস 21শে জুন।

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আমার পিতা রচনা | ছাত্র এবং শিশুদের জন্য আমার বাবা আমার রোল মডেলের উপর রচনা বাংলায় | My Father Essay | Essay On My Father My Role Model for Students and Children In Bengali

COMMENTS

আমার বাবা
Bengali . हिन्दी বাংলা ગુજરાતી ಕನ್ನಡ മലയാളം मराठी தமிழ் తెలుగు اردو ਪੰਜਾਬੀ . My Father - Short Essay
আমার বাবার বাংলায় প্রবন্ধ বাংলায়
Bengali . English বাংলা ગુજરાતી ಕನ್ನಡ മലയാളം मराठी தமிழ் తెలుగు اردو ਪੰਜਾਬੀ . My Father Essay সাধারণত, একটি শিশু তার পিতামাতার সাথে সবচেয়ে বেশি সংযুক্ত ...
Paragraph On Father (বাংলা অর্থসহ) এটি লিখলে স্যার ফুল মার্ক দিবেই
paragraph on father. A father is an important person in a child's life. He is a male parent who plays a crucial role in raising and nurturing their children. Fathers come in all shapes and sizes, and they are usually the head of the family. They work hard to provide for their family and make sure they have everything they need to live a happy ...
পিতার উপর রচনা বাংলায়
পিতার উপর রচনা বাংলায় | Essay on Father In Bengali - 600 শব্দসমূহে. By Webber রচনা 1 বছর আগে 6. বাবা হলেন সেই ব্যক্তি যিনি দেখান না যে তিনি আপনাকে ভালবাসেন ...
My Father Paragraph
He is second to none. He is my guide, philosopher, teacher, friend and so on. My father's name is Azizul Haque. He is an engineer. He loves me very much, but he is very strict also. When he returns from his office he spends time playing with me. Sometimes he takes care of me and my mother. Sometimes he goes out for refreshment.
Essay on My Father in Bengali/আমার বাবা বাংলা রচনা
Essay on My Father in Bengali/আমার বাবা বাংলা রচনাHello Friends,Welcome to my ChannelSD Erudite.In this Video, We will learn some lines on My father Paragrap...
আমার বাবা বাংলা রচনা
আমার বাবা বাংলা রচনা | Essay on my father in Bengali | Amar Baba Rachana/essay on my father 10 lines..Your Queries:-essay on my father in englishmy father es...
Paragraph on My Father
Paragraph on My Father in English | Short Paragraph on My Father in BanglaiAbout video- In this video we will learn how to write paragraph on My father in en...
Paragraph about "My Father "
He is always worried about our health and studies . He always advises us to be person of principle. My father is very religious. He says his prayers regularly. He spends his leisure time by reading books. Sometimes he work in his garden. My father is very kind and helpful to the poor. He likes to keep good terms with his neighbors .
রচনা : আমার পরিবার
Answer. 1 Answer. Hridoy. Added an answer on April 11, 2020 at 7:56 am. আমার পরিবার: আমাদের পরিবার একটি ছিমছাম পরিবার। আমাদের পরিবারের প্রধান আমার ঠাকুরদা। আমার পরিবারে আমি ...
Essay on My Father for Students and Children
Essay on My Father: Usually, people talk about a mother's love and affection, in which a father's love often gets ignored. A mother's love is talked about repeatedly everywhere, in movies, in shows and more. Yet, what we fail to acknowledge is the strength of a father which often goes unnoticed. Father's a blessing which not many people ...
আমার বাবা আমার নায়ক বাংলায় প্রবন্ধ বাংলায়
My Father My Hero Essay ... My Father My Hero Essay In Bengali Tags. Popular; ক. পি.জে. আব্দুল কালামের উপর ১০টি বাক্য বাংলায় | A. P.J. 10 sentences on abdul kalam In Bengali.
"Hell-Heaven," by Jhumpa Lahiri
By Jhumpa Lahiri. May 16, 2004. Pranab Chakraborty wasn't technically my father's younger brother. He was a fellow-Bengali from Calcutta who had washed up on the barren shores of my parents ...
Introduction to Bengali Literature: Authors & Resources
Bangla Bangladeshi Literature World Literature Introduction. Ashley Hajimirsadeghi. An under-appreciated form of literature found in South Asia, the Bengali people, inspired by the Arabic and Persian traditions, have found their own literary tradition. With the onset of the Bengali Renaissance and the trauma the Partition of India left behind ...
Essay on my father in Bengali language
Essay on my father in Bengali language.My father is the most beloved person in my family, and he loves me the most. He is the one who fulfils our needs and w...
Where the Mind is Without Fear
'Where the Mind is Without Fear' is one of the most powerful works by Bengali writer, Rabindranath Tagore. This simplified English language translation is 11 lines, without a rhyme scheme.The original Bengali version of the poem is called, Chitto jetha bhoyshunyo, and was published in 1910 before India gained its independence from Great Britain and was in the midst of protests and ...
বিভিন্ন বিষয়ের উপর বাংলা রচনা
All Bangla Paragraph Bangla Rachana Bengali Essay Bengali Rachana অনুচ্ছেদ বাংলা প্রবন্ধ বাংলা রচনা 1 9,968
Translate essay on my father in Bengali with examples
Contextual translation of "essay on my father" into Bengali. Human translations with examples: MyMemory, World's Largest Translation Memory.
My Idol is My Father
My Idol is My Father - Short Essay আমার আইডল হিসেবে কোনো সেলিব্রিটি বা বিখ্যাত ব্যক্তিত্ব বা কোনো ক্রীড়াবিদ নেই। আমার আইডল আমার বাবা। তিনি একমাত্র আমি তাকান.
Essay on My Father in 300, 400, 500, 600, 700 Words for Class 1-10
10 Lines Essay on My Father. Read in this essay on my father in 10 lines for all class students. 1. Father is the most important character in human life. He has the highest contribution to a son's life. 2. My father is an ideal father that I follow every time. 3. His name is Jahid Ahmed and he is a school teacher.
Essay on My Father in English to Bengali
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Short Essay on My Father [100, 200, 400 Words] With PDF
Short Essay on Father in 200 Words. My father is an ideal man. He is kind and caring. He works hard and takes care of our family. He is a strong-willed person who doesn't fear challenges and never gives up. He motivates me to study well and work hard towards my dreams. My father is my best friend. I share all my worries and problems with him ...
My Father Essay
Bengali . हिन्दी বাংলা ગુજરાતી ಕನ್ನಡ മലയാളം मराठी தமிழ் తెలుగు اردو ਪੰਜਾਬੀ . My Father Essay | Essay On My Father My Role Model for Students and Children ...