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.