Uncle Joe and Aunty Kannah with my brother and I.

Everyone who knows me knows how important my parents are to me—not just my biological parents, whom I adore (and one of whom I now live next door to!), but also the many others who treated me as their own son, seeing something in me that I never saw in myself. In future pieces, I hope to honour as many of them as I can without becoming overbearing.

One couple who have been pressing heavily on my heart lately are Uncle Joe and Aunty Kannah.

From the very first time I stayed with them until the last time I was in Canada in 2023, their home was always home to me.

When I was younger, I spent many weekends there and was thoroughly spoiled. Saturday mornings meant waking up just in time to watch my favourite cartoons while Aunty Kannah prepared breakfast. Sundays were for church together, Vacation Bible School, family meals and countless moments that still bring a smile to my face. Those memories remain among the happiest of my childhood.

But it was during my high school years that Uncle Joe and Aunty Kannah truly helped shape the man I would become.

When I moved to Canada in 2000, I first settled in Two Hills. Dad had been operating the Chronicle and had a home near the water tower. The plan was for me to attend Two Hills School.

The problem was that my heart was still in South Africa.

I missed my family terribly and struggled with the thought of starting over in a new country and a completely different school system. Dad, being the determined man he has always been, tried everything he could to encourage me. Neither of us handled the situation particularly well, and eventually we both realized we needed a little space.

So we drove to Barrhead.

I told Uncle Joe that I wanted to return to South Africa. As always, he listened patiently before offering several options. One of them was simply this:

"Why don't you stay here with us for a while?"

Knowing their home had always been a place of safety, I accepted without hesitation.

Since it was the beginning of summer and Uncle Joe was principal of the Alberta Distance Learning Centre at the time, he explained that because I was entering a new education system without all of my previous credits—and still needed courses like Social Studies and Career and Life Management—I had two choices.

I could enjoy the summer and begin Grade 10 in the fall, or I could complete those courses over the summer and start Grade 11 alongside my cousin, Krean.

To my teenage mind, the mathematics was simple.

Three months now, or an entire extra year later.

The decision practically made itself.

Like most teenagers, however, I spent almost as much time goofing off as I did studying.

Eventually Uncle Joe quietly did the math and realized that at my current pace I wasn't going to finish in time. He sat me down and simply said,

"I believe you can still get everything done."

That was all it took.

With his encouragement and Aunty Kannah patiently helping me whenever I got stuck, I put my head down and worked. Within a matter of weeks, I completed every course and wrote my exams a full week before school started.

Because of that summer, I entered Grade 11 instead of Grade 10.

That one conversation changed the direction of my education.

Of course, being me, I still had a few lessons left to learn.

Canadian schools gave students far more freedom than I had been used to in South Africa. Naturally, I became curious about where the boundaries were.

At first I skipped a class here and there to spend time with friends, drinking coffee around town and convincing myself I had become quite the rebel.

Then I made the brilliant decision to skip an entire week of school.

Every morning I left home exactly as if I were attending classes, carefully planning my days around friends who had spare periods or who were skipping classes themselves.

What never occurred to me was one simple detail.

Uncle Joe was a principal.

And principals talk to one another.

Concerned that something might be wrong, the principal of my school phoned Uncle Joe and asked whether I was alright because I hadn't attended school for several days.

Uncle Joe was understandably confused.

After all, he had watched me leave for school every morning.

When I arrived home that afternoon, Aunty Kannah was sitting quietly at the dining room table.

"Hi Aunty. How are you?" I asked cautiously.

"Son," she said gently, "come and sit down."

My stomach dropped.

"Uncle Joe found out you've been cutting class," she said softly. "He's not happy about it. Just listen to him and apologize. He'll understand."

She wasn't trying to frighten me.

She was trying to prepare me.

I went upstairs and waited.

Every possible lecture ran through my mind. I imagined shouting, disappointment and anger.

Instead...

When Uncle Joe arrived home, he calmly called me downstairs.

"Son," he began, "the principal called today because you haven't been in school."

I searched desperately for the right excuse.

Before I could speak, he continued.

"You know, son, I'm not going to yell at you. God knows you've had enough of that in your life. But I am going to tell you this—you have a beautiful opportunity here, and I would hate to see you waste it. Aunty Kannah and I love you. We love having you here, and we want to see you make something of yourself."

I was completely disarmed.

I expected thunder.

Instead, I received grace.

That conversation changed me.

For the first time, I understood that my self-destructive behaviour wasn't only hurting me. It was hurting two people who loved me as though I were their own son.

From that day forward, I made a conscious decision to take school seriously.

The change didn't happen overnight, but it happened.

My grades improved.

My attitude improved.

More importantly, I began to believe that maybe my life actually mattered.

By Grade 12 I had built enough momentum that graduation was finally within reach.

Then one final obstacle appeared.

Although I had completed Math 20 and was taking Math 30, there was no official record of my Math 10 course because I had completed it in South Africa.

Once again, graduation seemed to be slipping away.

But I hadn't counted on Uncle Joe.

He contacted my school in South Africa, arranged for my transcripts to be sent to Alberta, and suddenly everything fell into place.

I graduated with all the credits I needed.

Looking back now, I often wonder what would have become of me had I never lived with Uncle Joe and Aunty Kannah.

Before that time, discipline was something I resisted.

Afterward, it slowly became part of who I was.

I certainly haven't been perfect, and anyone who knows me can tell you I've made my fair share of mistakes since then. But those years taught me responsibility, perseverance and, above all, the power of unconditional love.

There is, however, one regret that still lingers in my heart.

At my graduation ceremony there came a moment when graduates were invited to dance with their mothers.

Krean and several others encouraged me to ask Aunty Kannah to dance.

But I was shy.

Socially awkward.

Unsure of myself.

So I stood back.

If I could relive that moment today, I would walk over to her, get down on one knee, and ask,

"Ma'am, may I have this dance?"

As the music played, I would tell her what I should have said all those years ago.

Thank you.

Thank you for loving a confused teenage boy who often made life more difficult than it needed to be.

Thank you for your patience.

Thank you for believing in me long before I believed in myself.

You showed me that love is the greatest strength in the world, and that when we choose to lead with love, we rarely go wrong.

As I write these words today, my eyes fill with tears.

There is simply no way I would be the man I am today without Uncle Joe and Aunty Kannah.

Life has given me many gifts, but few have shaped me more than the people who chose to love me when they didn't have to.

I was not given everything in this life.

But in Uncle Joe and Aunty Kannah...

God gave me you.

Many years ago, I had the genuine pleasure of working with one of the hardest-working farmers in the Two Hills area, Bob Bachelet. I always called him "Uncle Bob" because he and my dad were such close friends that they referred to each other as brothers. Before long, he felt like family to me too.

In the summer of 2014, I had just returned home after a stay in the St. Paul hospital. One afternoon, I was sitting on the couch watching television when I heard a knock at the door.

It was Uncle Bob.

"Hey there, young feller!" he said in his familiar, fatherly voice. "Whatcha doing?"

"Nothing much, Uncle Bob. Just relaxing," I replied with a smile.

"How come you're not at work?"

"I don't have a job at the moment," I admitted, a little embarrassed.

He took off his hat, scratched his head for a moment and said, "You know, I could use a hand on the farm if you'd be up to it."

"I'd love to," I answered without hesitation.

I had always been fascinated by farming. Growing up in town, I had absolutely no experience with it, but there was something remarkable about the idea of working the land that had always appealed to me.

"Great," he said. "Meet me at my place at eight sharp."

The next morning, I woke up eager for my first day. After feeding my dog, Nero, and chugging down a quick cup of coffee, I headed out. Since Uncle Bob lived just down the road, I decided to walk. It wasn't far, and the quiet country road made for a beautiful start to the day.

I arrived a few minutes before eight and knocked on the door.

"Come on in there, young feller. Have a seat. You drink coffee?"

He was already standing at the stove making breakfast.

"Actually, Uncle Bob, I'm ready to get to work if you've got something for me to start on," I said, trying to politely decline despite the mouth-watering smell of bacon filling the kitchen.

"Nonsense," he replied, pouring me a cup of coffee. "We're gonna have breakfast first. Then we can get to it."

Looking back, I'm glad I didn't argue.

After a hearty breakfast, we headed outside to begin the day's work. I have always tried to stay in reasonably good shape—well, perhaps "reasonably" is doing a lot of heavy lifting—but I quickly discovered I was no match for Uncle Bob. He tossed hay bales around as though they were made of paper while I struggled to keep up.

By lunchtime, I was completely worn out.

Back in the house, another hot, delicious meal was waiting. We'd sit together, eat, chat for a while, and then head back outside for the afternoon's work. Every day followed much the same rhythm: a hearty breakfast, honest work, a wonderful lunch, and countless conversations.

Working alongside a lifelong farmer was an education in itself. Like a sponge, I soaked up everything he taught me—from planting a productive garden to the gravity-flow irrigation system he had built and perfected over the years.

When the season finally came to an end, he thanked me for my help and said that if he ever needed anything, he'd give me a call. He also reminded me that if I ever needed a hand, I should never hesitate to ask.

Not long afterwards, Uncle Bob stopped by with another project.

"I've got something I'd like your help with."

Naturally, I jumped at the chance.

His request, however, caught me completely off guard.

He wanted me to help him gather and prepare the lumber for his coffin.

At the time, I remember thinking it was an unusual request, but I never questioned him. He explained that he wanted to be able to say he had built his own coffin using wood from his own land. He wasn't expecting to pass away anytime soon. He simply wanted to do it himself.

Then he looked at me and said something I have never forgotten.

"Jared, you speak at my funeral and tell people I did that."

My first thought was, Please don't make me speak in public.

What I actually said was, "What would I say?"

He grinned.

"Make something up... you're a good writer."

I remember silently wondering, Am I?

As it turned out, Uncle Bob saw something in me long before I saw it in myself.

Years later, I would decide to take writing seriously. Looking back now, I can't help but smile at the confidence he had in me before I ever had it in myself.

Sadly, I never did get to fulfil that request.

To the Bachelet family, I simply want to say thank you for sharing Uncle Bob with our community. He was one of the kindest, hardest-working and most genuine people I have ever known. His warm smile, gentle humour and fatherly voice remain among my fondest memories.

And to Uncle Bob...

Thank you.

Thank you for the breakfasts, the conversations, the lessons in the garden, the long days of honest work, the Lions Club bingos, and for treating a town kid like he belonged on the farm.

One day, when we meet again, I hope you'll know that although I never got to speak at your funeral, I finally kept my promise by telling your story.

Some requests may remain unfinished.

But some promises simply take a little longer to keep.

(Image generated using AI)

At the moment, being more than 15,000 kilometres away from Two Hills, the town where I spent a significant part of my life in Canada, I cannot help but feel a little saddened to be away during one of the country's most cherished celebrations.

For the years I spent in Canada, July 1 meant that summer had finally arrived. It signalled two months of lake visits, backyard barbecues, community celebrations and soaking in the warmth of the nourishing sun while trying to enjoy every precious moment of it before winter inevitably returned.

My first visit was in the summer of 1992, when I was introduced to the land my Dad could never stop talking about. We spent six unforgettable weeks together as he showed me around Athabasca, where he lived and worked at the time. We visited relatives in Barrhead, explored West Edmonton Mall—one of my favourite places as a child—and I even got my first taste of McDonald's. From that moment on, I knew I wanted to live there.

A year or so later, I made the move and began attending school in Canada.

As someone who belongs to two nations, I often felt divided between them, and my time in Canada was punctuated by trips back to South Africa. Yet Canada became the place where I learned many of life's important lessons. It was where I learned to drive, enjoyed my first legal beer and experienced my first true winter.

I came to know frozen roads, snowbanks higher than my head and weather that seemed capable of stealing every ounce of warmth from your body the moment you stepped outside. I discovered the unique Canadian experience of driving on a frozen lake in February and swimming in that very same lake in July.

Although I have resided in South Africa for the past several years to be closer to Mum, a significant part of my heart will always remain in Canada. Whenever I think about the country, I am filled with an indescribable sense of warmth as I remember the friendships I forged, the communities that welcomed me and the breathtaking landscapes that make it one of the finest places in the world to call home.

Canada is not simply a place on a map for me. It is a collection of memories, milestones and moments that helped shape who I am today. It is a country of boundless natural beauty, welcoming communities and enduring opportunities.

So, wherever this Canada Day may find us—whether gathered beneath fireworks in our hometowns, relaxing beside a lake, or reflecting from thousands of kilometres away—we can still celebrate the nation that has touched our lives in so many meaningful ways.

Happy Birthday, Canada. From far and wide, we stand on guard for thee.

Dad and I on my last visit in 2023 (Photo by Joe Raju)

“Dad, we're pals, right?” Simba asked Mufasa after he was rescued from the hyenas. “And we're going to be together forever, right?”

Mufasa pauses, wondering how to explain to his young son that one day they would be separated.

It's that line that has played over and over in my head ever since I received the news on Tuesday morning that Dad was no longer with us.

Being well into my forties, the concept of mortality is not lost on me, but I, like many others, was stunned to hear that the strong, witty, and naturally charming Sonny had gone on to be with the Lord.

I'll admit that at first, I didn't believe it.

Being thousands of miles away in South Africa creates a certain distance from events unfolding in Alberta, but it does not make them any less painful.

For many years, my day was not complete until I heard my Dad's voice. It didn't matter what was going on in my world. When my phone announced that he was calling, I knew I would hear his voice, and I knew he would know exactly what to say to make everything seem like it was going to be okay.

As I write this, I would give anything to see that happen one more time.

To hear him tell me how beautiful the community of Two Hills is and how deeply loved he was there. To hear about the exceptional care he was receiving from the staff at Hillside Lodge. To hear how proud he was of Kaleland Estates, his passion project for so many years.

Just one more call.

One more chance to tell him how much I love him, how much I appreciate everything he taught me, and how much everything he did for me truly meant.

Dad, despite his boisterous character, was a rather simple man. Born in a small farming community in rural KwaZulu-Natal, he had a knack for telling tall tales and being a mischief-maker. But that only served to endear him more to the brothers and sisters who loved him beyond description.

Much like myself, Dad was blessed to have more than one family. Through his parents, Harry and Kannah, he shared life with his siblings Joe, Brian, Amsa, Sharma, Lazarus, Samson, and Sarah. Through his other family, Sam and Chandramma, he gained siblings Sandra, Sheila, Bommy, Larry, Vernon, Johnny, and Sissy.

He was predeceased by Brian, Sharma, Lazarus, Sarah, and Sissy, as well as both sets of parents.

Both families constantly showered him with love and laid claim to him, something he thoroughly enjoyed. He remained in regular contact with all of them, not to mention his many nieces and nephews, his grandchildren—Keanan, Brennan, Aaron, Xylia, Xaraya, and Xianna—who were the pride of his life, his great-granddaughter Zarielle, daughter of Keanan and Onay, and his three children: my older sister Niri, my older brother Ruven, and me.

Dad developed an interest in politics at an early age and showed tremendous potential. Gifted with a razor-sharp wit, an extensive vocabulary, and undeniable charm, he excelled at almost everything he did.

I say almost everything because anyone who knew Dad also knew his limitations when it came to technology.

He left a lasting impression on nearly everyone who had the pleasure of knowing him.

In 1986, Dad made a move that would open countless doors for more people than I am probably even aware of. Despite the distance and the changes life brought, he maintained a friendly relationship with Mum and regularly called to make sure she was doing well.

Working his way through various positions, he quickly earned a reputation as an all-rounder in the newspaper industry. His natural talent as a writer, combined with his gift of conversation and remarkable sales ability, allowed him to rise through the ranks. Wherever he worked, he demonstrated not only knowledge and professionalism but also a genuine ability to lead.

Toward the turn of the century, Dad moved to Two Hills and established the Two Hills & County Chronicle. The community welcomed him with open arms.

His writing style and passion for the people of the region quickly earned him friends throughout the county. His reputation, knowledge, and commitment to the community eventually led him into municipal politics.

One story has always stood out to me because it perfectly captures Dad's humility.

When he first decided to run for Town Council, he printed campaign flyers and went door-to-door himself. At the time, I happened to be living in town.

One day, Dad showed up at my house.

Naturally, I was thrilled to see him and assumed he was simply stopping by for a visit.

He wasn't.

He was campaigning.

He was asking for my support.

My Dad—campaigning to his own son as though he needed to do anything more than ask.

One of the greatest blessings of his later years, in my opinion, was being able to attend the graduation of his oldest granddaughter, Xylia. As was usually the case wherever he went, he received a warm welcome from everyone around him.

On Monday—the day before I received the call that would rock my world—Dad and I spoke three times.

He was his usual exuberant self, telling me about his latest adventures and catching me up on everything that was happening. During our third conversation, he was on his way to a meeting but wanted to give me a heads-up about something he needed me to take care of.

He told me it was late on my end and that he would give me all the details when he called me on Tuesday.

The call that came instead was from my big sister, Niri.

I could tell by her voice that it was serious.

Like always, I assured her that Dad was stronger than anyone knew and that there was no need to worry. He would be okay. He would call later that evening, just as he always did.

That wouldn't be the case.

I remember receiving countless messages and calls offering support. I responded with gratitude and love, but somewhere in the back of my mind, I still expected Dad to call and tell me he was fine—that he would be back home in no time.

I managed to hold myself together for the entire day.

Until nine o'clock that evening.

It was then that it finally dawned on me.

By then I was alone.

And I broke down.

When I look back on all the times Dad came to my rescue, I am overwhelmed with gratitude. There are countless stories of mistakes I made, problems I didn't know how to solve, and situations where I felt completely lost.

Whenever those moments came, I knew exactly what to do.

Talk to Dad.

While I mourn that loss today, I take comfort in the belief that he has been reunited with his parents and siblings and that, when the time is right, I will see him again.

To everyone who has reached out with messages, calls, prayers, and support, thank you.

The outpouring of love we have received from family, friends, and community members has been truly overwhelming.

It is clear how deeply Dad was loved—not only by those who shared his bloodline, but by everyone fortunate enough to know him.

I pray that God grants comfort to all of us as we process this loss, and that He blesses each of you for the kindness you have shown our family and for all that you did for Dad.

Until we meet again, Dad.

I love you.

Brad with his three amazing sons, Keanan, Brennan and Aaron

One of the most influential people in my life would have to be Brad. He first came into my world when I was six years old, a time when there was a lot going on for us. But almost like a TV show, he appeared and suddenly the world started to make sense.

He would become my brother-in-law and give my big sister three amazing sons, along with decades of love and care, until he was called home in 2014. Not a day goes by when I don’t think about something he taught me, or stop myself from doing something I know he told me not to do.

Every so often, I would be sitting watching TV and feel a light smack upside the head. Looking up, I would see Brad grinning at me. “What did I do?” I would ask.

Still smiling, he would reply, “It’s not what you did — it’s what you didn’t do.”

I would breathe a sigh of relief because that meant he hadn’t caught me doing what I actually wasn’t supposed to be doing.

One particular day, he had some deliveries to make and asked if I wanted to go with him. This was always a favourite of mine because it didn’t matter where we were going — it was guaranteed to be a riot.

The place in question was somewhere he had been before, and he needed to stop at another location nearby. We found the first place with ease and figured we would be back home after a very short voyage.

We were mistaken.

Reaching a fork in the road, we stopped to ask for directions. An older gentleman walking with his cow was very polite and assured us the place we were looking for was very close by.

Following his directions, we travelled for what felt like an hour. We hadn’t missed any turns because there weren’t any, apart from the occasional curve in the road.

“How close is close?” I finally asked, beginning to worry we were lost.

“I was thinking the same thing,” Brad replied. “Let’s ask someone else.”

We continued on until we spotted another person. The young man we encountered was equally friendly and helpful.

“Yes, I know the place,” he said. “But eish, it is very far.”

We thanked him and carried on, now more confused than ever. The first man said it was close, the second said it was far. Who was right? More importantly — where were we?

We decided to start asking everyone we saw. Surely someone would know this place and be able to give us proper directions. Yet every answer was some variation of either “close” or “far,” without any actual indication of distance.

After hours of following the directions of countless strangers, both of us exhausted and ready to abandon the quest entirely, we spotted another young man walking along the side of the road. We figured one more attempt couldn’t hurt.

“Eish brothers,” he said after we explained where we were trying to go. “You are on the right road, but you are going the wrong way. You need to turn around.”

He smiled and walked off.

“No!” Brad snapped. “Absolutely not! We have been on this road for three hours. There is NO way I am turning around and going back the way we came. I don’t care — I’m staying on this road and I am NOT turning around!”

More confused than ever, I was still more inclined to trust Brad’s judgement than anyone else we had encountered that day.

So we continued on, steam practically rising from our collars in frustration at the runaround we had received.

Then we saw it.

Not a hundred metres away from our last “guide.”

“Is that it?” I asked, almost unsure whether I was seeing a mirage.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Brad groaned, though there was obvious relief in his voice as we finally pulled up to the building.

He went inside while I got out to stretch my legs.

Minutes later, he returned and we jumped back into the van.

Now we faced our newest dilemma — which way should we go home?

After a few minutes of discussion, we decided not to go back the way we came. Instead, we continued along the road we had arrived on, heading in the same direction and silently hoping this would not become another endless adventure.

Much to both our delight and exasperation, within two minutes we rejoined the highway and were on our way home.

The best part came just before we turned onto the highway. We noticed a map on the roadside highlighting the path we had travelled. The road was one giant circle. If we had gone the other way from the start, we would have reached our destination in minutes.

We laughed about it all the way home.

But to this day, I am grateful we went the wrong way, because even now, that remains one of my favourite memories — simply because it was spent with someone who meant the world to me.

The proud new parents with their fur babies

Like many, I have been eagerly awaiting this day. I thought I would be excited, but to be honest, my vocabulary is not nearly extensive enough to capture what I feel right now.

After several months of waiting, our little miracle has finally arrived safe and sound, and Momma Bear is healthy as well.

To Keanan and Onay—thank you for allowing us to share in this magical moment and for bringing a new ray of light into our world. I am certain in my heart that you will be amazing parents.

Keanan, every time I see you, you remind me more and more of your father, a man I still look to for guidance to this day. For me and so many others, he was a rock—the one you could turn to when “it” hit the fan.

Having watched you grow up and become a man, having had the honour of attending your wedding, and then hearing the news that you were expecting, I found myself overwhelmed as memories played back through time.

I am certain that as you step into fatherhood, you will meet it with the same zeal and energy that will carry you to excel naturally.

Onay, from the moment Keanan first introduced you to the family, it was clear he had made a beautiful choice. It has been a privilege watching your relationship grow, and now, as you enter this new chapter, I know in my heart you will be an incredible mother. Your loving and caring nature shines through in the way you treat everyone around you.

Together, you are a powerhouse—truly a match made of strength and grace—and the perfect parents to raise your wonderful child. Grounded in Christ and building a home rooted in Godly values, I have no doubt your child will grow surrounded by love, guidance, and purpose.

To my dear little one—you bring so many firsts. You are Mum and Dad’s first great-grandchild, the first grandchild on both sides of the family, and the first niece for many others. Not to mention, you’ve made me a granddad at 42. (I already got my rocking chair, pipe and suspenders picked out!)

My point is simple: you bring renewed hope into all of our lives. We look forward to the treasured memories we will create and the magical moments we will share.

Today and always, I am grateful to be blessed with you in my life. And one day, when you are able to read this, I hope you come across it and know that you have been loved deeply from the very beginning—and always will be.

Mum with 3 out of 5 kids

I had this planned out perfectly before today. I knew every word I was going to say. But now I stare at the blank page, struggling to find the words as my eyes overflow with tears of gratitude.

For years, I struggled to put into words everything I felt in my heart but failed to articulate. At forty-two, I can finally say I’ve found my voice, in a manner of speaking, and can begin to express — however incompletely — the impact my mother has had on my life.

From my earliest memories, Mom was a titan of a woman. Despite working full-time and managing a busy home, she still somehow made time for family and friends. The truth is, Mum has no “OFF-switch.”

Even when I was only two weeks old, she returned to work, walked home during her lunch break to feed me, then hurried back to finish the day. How she balanced a career while raising five rambunctious children — each with their own quirks and needs — is beyond me. Though, if I’m being honest, I may very well have been the most difficult of the bunch.

Even through the toughest seasons of life, she showed a tenacity that still drives me to this day. Whenever I feel like giving up, or that nothing I do is working, I remember the countless times my mother faced setbacks and hardships but never allowed them to sway her sense of duty to her children or to God.

Even now, if any one of us were to tell her we were sick or needed help, she would immediately drop whatever she was doing. On one side, she’d be running diagnostics and making sure we were seeing a doctor and taking the proper medication. On the other, she’d already have worship music or Bible verses playing as she prayed over us at the same time.

Today, as I write this, I live practically next door to Mum. When I was young, I told her I would always stay by her side well into my old age. She laughed and said she hoped I was wrong, but today it feels like one of the greatest blessings of my life to be able to run next door and smell Mum’s cooking in the kitchen.

(Yes, I am a giant man-child… although “giant” may be a slight exaggeration.)

But “Mother” encompasses so much more to me than even my own mother, whom I love beyond description.

Many times throughout my life, I was far from Mum — whether living in Canada with Dad or elsewhere. Yet somehow, in those moments, there were always mother figures who stepped in to fill that space. They welcomed me as one of their own children and made sure I was safe, fed, and loved.

From aunties to the mothers of friends (not to mention an overprotective big sister), both here and in Canada, I was never far from the loving embrace of a mother.

We all love our mothers, but one day is not enough to show them what they truly mean to us.

For the first nine months of our lives, our entire world existed within her very body. She ate for us, breathed for us, and shielded us from harm long before we could do any of those things for ourselves.

Even before we took our first awkward steps, she was our first chauffeur — carrying us from place to place, sometimes while we were completely unconscious, giving us the strange childhood feeling of teleportation. Waking up at home wondering, “Wait… how did I get here?”

For all that you do, mothers, I pray that if I have ever done anything worthy of merit, that you would be blessed in my stead. Because without your indescribable sacrifices, I would not be here.

Dad and I on my last visit to Canada. (Photo by Gonam Raju)

For anyone, a birthday is a day to be honoured and celebrated by loved ones and those closest to us. Being thousands of miles away, I can only do this with words and sentiment, trusting that love finds a way to cross even the greatest distances.

Today, I find myself reminiscing about some of my favourite memories.

One goes back to when I was around two or three years old and I needed to watch my Masters of the Universe cartoons. Dad took me to the video store to rent it. For those who remember how those worked, sometimes all the copies were rented out—and there was nothing you could do but wait for one to be returned. Anyone who knows me knows I can be a bit inflexible at times. Apparently, that trait showed up early.

Dad tried his best to calm my very visible displeasure. Instead, I threw decorum to the wind, wound up, and clocked him.

(For the record, I am not proud of this. I do not condone violence—towards parents or anyone else—and I have since apologized, both officially and unofficially. But I digress.)

To this day, I am reminded of my callous and entirely unprovoked attack, to which I can only respond: “I was three.”

Another classic memory takes place at the Golden Grill Restaurant in Athabasca. There are several stories from there, but I’ll save some for another time.

I was eight years old on my first visit to Canada. I had heard so many stories and was beyond excited to finally experience it for myself. At the time, Dad worked for the Athabasca Advocate, and I loved tagging along to work and sitting in on his meetings. He never once minded—always making sure I was safe and fed.

Dad, much like now, was well known in the community, so the staff at the Golden Grill knew him. (I’m sure being one of the few brown faces in a small town didn’t hurt his memorability.) I’ll also admit that I’ve always struggled with social cues—sometimes even the simplest concepts would completely pass me by.

One day, Dad was tied up in a meeting and realized it was getting late and I hadn’t eaten. He told me to head over to the restaurant, order whatever I liked, and tell the waitress I was his son—that he would come by afterward to settle the bill.

I said none of that.

Instead, I walked in, sat down, ordered a meal, ate it, got up… and left. Without a word.

I did this more than once.

To this day, I am deeply grateful for the patience and understanding of the staff. Years later, after I had learned a bit more about money—and improved slightly (though still not perfectly) in reading social situations—Dad and I laughed about it. He told me they never worried. They always knew who I was, and he always came by to settle up afterward.

It’s just one more example of the many things he quietly did for me that I didn’t fully understand at the time.

Now, on his 76th birthday, I sit and laugh to myself, thinking about our misadventures and the countless memories we’ve shared over the years. More than anything, I’m overwhelmed with gratitude—not just for what my Dad has done for me, but for who he has always been in my life.

His name, Dharamaraj—a name I spent most of my life unable to spell or pronounce properly—I recently learned is derived from two Sanskrit words: dharma, meaning “virtue,” and raj, meaning “king.”

Looking at the body of his life’s work, and his steadfast dedication to his family and community, the name could not be more fitting.

From a simple farm boy in rural KwaZulu-Natal, to having tea with the Queen of England, to decades of involvement in journalism and politics, his life reflects a commitment to giving his best in all that he has done.

I am immensely proud of him.

And I consider it one of the greatest honours of my life to be called his son.

Which one of us can think of our grandmother without feeling an unmistakable warmth rise in our chest? Perhaps even a tear forming as we remember the small, quiet ways they made us feel like we were the most important person in the world.

My Amma was no exception.

From my earliest memories, whenever I was scared or unsure, she was the one I turned to. She had a way of making you believe — without grand speeches or dramatic reassurances — that everything was going to work out.

Amma may not have completed school. She did not build a career outside the home. She was a full-time homemaker. Yet to this day, she remains one of the wisest women I have ever known. I say that sincerely — and anyone who knew her would say the same.

What stands out most is this: I do not remember her telling me what to do. She offered advice when asked, but she never shouted. She never demanded. We did what was expected — not out of fear — but out of love.

There is a profound lesson in that.

We often think leadership requires volume. That authority requires force. That to be heard, we must shout. But sometimes the greatest influence comes quietly — through example.

Amma did the right thing not for praise, not for recognition, not for applause — but because it was right. She gave more than I will probably ever fully understand, and she did so from a pure heart.

And perhaps that is the lesson.

Doing the right thing is rarely about grand gestures. More often, it looks like patience when someone is rude. Kindness to a stranger. Picking up a piece of trash as you walk past. Holding the door open for someone behind you.

Small acts. Quiet choices.

Like ripples in a pond, a single act of kindness expands farther than we ever see. If each of us chose one small act of goodness each day, the world would change — not all at once, but steadily, surely.

That is the legacy of Amma.

And that is what it means to stand on the shoulders of giants.

As someone of Indian descent, it feels natural that this should be one of my first posts. Yet even now, I struggle to distill a single teaching from it. Perhaps that is why this will become a recurring feature until I work out all the kinks — and in truth, that will not be a waste at all.

As a career journalist and politician, my father has led an illustrious and admirable life. I will be the first to admit that when I was younger, I did not always see it. With the benefit of age, however, I now recognize the deep wisdom contained in every conversation we share.

One of the qualities that stands out most is his philosophy of treating everyone with equal respect, regardless of social status or wealth. This is not only a profoundly human attitude, but a deeply spiritual one as well.

We are all children of God and part of His creation. Though we may differ in appearance or circumstance, we ultimately belong to the same larger human family.

For those of us fortunate enough to still have our fathers with us, let us take the time to offer a special thank-you or a word of respect — and not wait for Father’s Day to express the impact they have had on our lives.