When the defense concluded, the coach came to shake hands with me and my family. When it was my father’s turn, the coach suddenly paused, looked at him intently, and then his expression changed…

I was born into an incomplete family. My parents divorced when I was a child. My mother took me to my maternal home, a small village in the state of Bihar, where there was only fields, sunshine, air, and gossip. I don’t remember my biological father’s face clearly; I just know that in my early years, I grew up in both material and emotional deprivation.

When I was 4 years old, my mother remarried. The man was a construction worker. He brought my mother nothing—no money, no house, just a thin back, dark skin, and hands rough from lime and mortar.

Initially, I didn’t like him. He was very strange, often leaving early and coming home late, and he always smelled of sweat and cement dust.

But then he was the first person who, without a word, fixed my old bicycle and patched my broken slippers. When I did something wrong, he wouldn’t hit me, just quietly cleaned it up. Once, when I was bullied at school, he didn’t yell at me like my mother, but instead came to pick me up on his bicycle. On the way, he said:

“I’m not forcing you to call me Dad, but I’ll always be there for you if you need me.”

I remained silent, but from that day on, I started calling him Dad.

My childhood memories of my father are his old bicycle, his dusty clothes, the nights when he would come home late, his hands still chapped, but he never forgot to ask:

“How was school today?”

He wasn’t very educated, unable to even solve complex math problems, but he always told me:

“You may not top your class, but you must study hard. Wherever you go, people will see your knowledge and respect you.”

My mother was a farmer, my father a construction worker. Our family was poor, but I studied well. When I passed the university entrance exam, my mother cried. My father was quietly smoking a cheap beedi on the veranda. The next day, he sold the family’s only motorcycle and, together with my mother, raised the money to send me to Delhi to study.

The day he saw me off, he wore a faded shirt, his back drenched in sweat, and he held a bucket of rice, a jar of pickle, and a few packets of roasted lentils. Before leaving the hostel, he said:

“Son, try your best. Study well.”

When I opened the lunch box my mother had packed, I saw a piece of paper folded in four, with sloppy handwriting on it:
“I don’t know what you study, but I’ll work just as hard as you. Don’t worry.”

I studied at university for four years, then pursued postgraduate studies. He was still a construction worker, growing thinner and thinner, his back hunched over. Once, when I went back to my hometown, I saw him sitting under the scaffolding, panting. I wanted to tell him to rest, but he waved his hand and said:
“I can still do it. Whenever I get tired, I imagine I’m preparing for my PhD. That thought makes me proud.”
On the day of my PhD thesis defense, I begged my father to come. At first, he refused, saying he was a villager. I had to lie, saying it was mandatory for school. Finally, he nodded, borrowed his uncle’s old suit, put on shoes a size too tight, and put on a new hat he’d bought at the district market.

That day, he sat in the last row of the hall, his eyes unwavering.

When I finished speaking, the instructor came to shake my hand. When it was my father’s turn, he suddenly stopped… “You’re Rajesh Uncle, right? When I was little, my house was near the construction site where you worked. I remember you once helped an injured worker down from the scaffolding, even though you yourself were injured.”

Before Dad could say anything, the instructor spoke emotionally:
“I never expected to meet you today as the father of a new PhD holder. This is truly a great honor.”

I turned around and saw Dad smiling, but his eyes were red. At that moment, I realized he had never sought revenge on me in his entire life. But today, he got recognition – not because of me, but because of something he had quietly nurtured for 25 years.

Now, I’m a university lecturer, and I have a small family of my own. Dad no longer works in construction; he just grows vegetables in the backyard, raises chickens, reads the newspaper in the morning, and cycles around the village in the afternoon. Sometimes he calls me, shows me his vegetable beds, and asks me to bring eggs for his grandchildren. I asked:
“Do you regret working hard all your life for your child?”

He smiled:
“No regrets. Dad has worked hard all his life, but he’s most proud of having a son like you.”

I was stunned. I have a PhD. My father is a construction worker. He didn’t build me a house, but he “made” me a human being.