-Karthik Gurumurthy
We often speak of fatherhood as something that happens to a man. A child is born, and in that moment he becomes a father, as if the title alone could change him. We imagine that love, patience, and tenderness will simply arrive, unlocked by the miracle of a new life.
There’s truth in that. Many men do find that fatherhood softens them. They become more patient, more attentive to others’ needs, and more moved by the vulnerability of the small and helpless. But this change doesn’t happen on its own. It isn’t granted at the moment of birth like a gift handed over at the hospital door. It grows from something much more ordinary and much more demanding: the daily work of caring.
Research on fathers’ brains points in this direction. Studies have found that the more time fathers spend directly caring for their children, the more their brains seem to adapt to the role, strengthening the networks tied to understanding and responding to others. The change follows the involvement. It’s not the title of father that reshapes a man, but the act of fathering.
More than two thousand years ago, Aristotle taught that we don’t become virtuous by wishing to be or by being given the label. We become just by doing just acts, and brave by doing brave acts. Character, he believed, is built through practice. Fatherhood seems to follow the same pattern. A man doesn’t become caring simply because he has a child. He becomes caring by caring: by rocking a crying baby at 3 a.m., by learning to read a small face for hunger or fear, and by being present for the ordinary, unglamorous moments that make up a child’s day.
Seen this way, empathy is less a feeling we possess than a capacity we build. Fatherhood isn’t a wonder drug that transforms a man overnight. It’s an invitation, and like every invitation, it can be accepted or declined. A father who leans in, present and involved, finds that in raising a child, he is also, in a sense, being raised.
A tribute to my dad
I feel truly thankful and blessed to have a father who lived this truth. My dad never needed grand words to show how much he cared. He showed it through his actions, day after day. He was always my greatest cheerleader, cheering me on through every success and standing by me through every setback.
He gave me the gift of his time. He patiently explained the logic behind the cricketing brain: how a captain thinks, why a field is set a certain way, and how the game itself evolved over the years. Through his stories, I came to know about his friendships with cricketing greats such as S. Venkataraghavan, R. Prabhakar, and G. R. Viswanath, and I learned to love the game not just as a sport but as a contest of minds.
He also shared stories of his passion for theatre, especially how he joined hands with S. Ve. Shekher uncle and friends to start the Natakapriya drama troupe. Through those stories, I learned that friendship, creativity, and commitment can come together to build something lasting.
Today is his birthday, and I find myself reminiscing about all the wonderful things I learned from him: lessons about the game, about people, and about life. Looking back, I realize his greatest lesson wasn’t anything he said. It was the way he showed up, again and again, with interest, patience, and love.
Happy birthday, Dad. Thank you for showing me, through your example, what it truly means to be a father.
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