To the Man with a Green Bucket

The oldest memory I have of my existence other's existence is very weird. I was seated on my mother's lap in a jam packed auto rickshaw. She wore a red sari and her sindur smudged because of sweat. There were other kids with their mothers. I do not exactly remember where we were going. But trip was about something important. I presume it was my first day at kid's school or may be a vacation to nani's place at Mathura. Papa was washing his scooter. A blue scooter. Or may be it was something else, but he was definitely washing something, for he had a green broken bucket and a mug. As the rickshaw kept moving, the image of my father waving a good-bye kept getting tinier. I then didn't know why. May be it was a foggy morning or may be I had weaker eyes. 
As kids, I believe we do not really value our only family - Parents. For us, they are simply two individuals who are supposed to feed us Lactogen in milk and change our nappies and get along with our mid-night tantrums. For us, they do not hold any significance, any emotion or a background. They are just there. 
May be it was then when I first realized his importance in my life, when he stood their waving his hand for me. The only person on the road, whose silhouette I could recognize, whose bucket I could relate to. This realization could be one reason why I remember the scene. Or may am just making things up, because when I asked my parents about this, they didn't remember it really. May be it was the first time I learnt relating myself to people in my life. 
This June, I was admitted and my father had to leave for Bhopal, the usual. The flight wasn't available. As he approached gate, saying me a goodbye, tears rolled down on his cheek. That was the second time I could really relate to him. Probably the only man who didn't want to leave me 'alone' in a five-star hospital with well-trained doctors,  a caring mother and a few ready-to-help relatives. Fathers don't change.