The Box My Father Built – A Father's Day Reflection

My room has always felt like an empty little box from the inside—a quiet space filled not with things, but with air, light, and scents drifting in through the punctures in the walls. It echoes with an odd enthusiasm, the kind that emerges when you start admiring emptiness rather than fearing it. Even though it’s full of objects, there’s still a space that lingers—an emotional emptiness, perhaps. No one seems fully satisfied with what they have, and maybe that’s the beauty of it. The quiet gap between my mind and my room fascinates me. It draws me in. It makes me stay. And in some strange way, it’s made me fall in love with it.

Presenting the Box -

The Kingdom of Cardboard

As a child, I collected cardboard boxes like treasures. The packaging of new clothes, electronics, or toys never went to waste—they were stored in a corner of my room, waiting to become something else.

Whenever I learned something new, I’d try to recreate it with these boxes. Most often, they turned into piggy banks or crazy experiments inspired by Harun Robert from his TV show MAD. That guy drove my imagination wild—alongside Phineas and Ferb, of course. If I ever built a Hall of Fame for my childhood creative heroes, those two would be right up there. And how could I forget Agent P, the platypus with a double life?

The Empty-Head Robot and a Serial-Loving Dad

One Diwali break, I remember being on a mission: to build an “empty-head robot.” It was an art-and-craft project, but I took it seriously. I wanted my bot to learn karate and kung-fu and help me stand up to bullies at my hostel. Maybe even help me talk to the girl I liked. In reality, it was just a hollow figure made of cardboard, sitting limply on the sofa while I tried—and failed—to fix its knees.

That day, a Telugu serial was playing on TV. My dad was grumbling about the long commercial break. Seizing the moment, he came over to help. Sitting in his chair, he pulled the lifeless bot toward him and, with a compass, straw, glue, pencil, and some extra cardboard pieces, fixed it before the serial resumed.

Not many dads in this country watch serials, but mine did. And not many would pause one just to help their kid bring a dream to life.

The bot never worked, of course. No cardboard fist could deliver a real punch. But the point wasn’t violence—it was the idea. The freedom to imagine. The belief that you could build your warrior, your world. We often wait for someone else to bring us freedom, not realizing it’s always been inside our heads.

The Man Behind the Walls

My dad also helped me fill my first piggy bank. He supported every wild idea. Whether it was building architectural models late at night during my college years or experimenting with strange contraptions, he was always there in the background—steady, silent, supportive.

I often call my room the best place in the world. But I forgot who built it for me.

My father made it so I could hang my paintings, organize my books, and work on the things I love. As a child, I didn’t understand the weight of what he’d given me—a roof, a safe space, a stage for my curiosity. Only now do I see the value of the shelter he created, not just physically, but emotionally.

The Box That Took Me Away

When I was seven, I was sent to boarding school. At the time, it felt like another box—one that locked me up. It took me away from chicken kebabs, weekend movies, and familiar comfort. Life became a loop: wake up, exercise, lace your shoes, march in line wearing a blue uniform with white stripes and a tie—symbols of structure, discipline, and control.

We returned, played briefly, then marched again—to tuitions, to dinner, to bed. Everything was present—except that empty feeling of being truly seen, truly loved.

I didn’t understand life or academics. Teachers called me a slow learner. I began to question the box I lived in. Back then, I thought I was just... lost.

But now, when I look back, I don’t see a cage. I see a gift.

That school, that routine—it was the most expensive present my father ever gave me. He worked hard to pay for it. I’m sure he missed me more than I ever understood. That box may have limited my outer freedom, but it taught me to look inward. It taught me that no one can take away your inner wisdom, your love for those who care about you, and your hope.

Feel the Emptiness, Feel the Love

So, this Father's Day, fall onto your bed.

Don’t switch on the fan—those beautiful thoughts might fly away. Instead, lie still and feel the gravitational pull of the ceiling your father built. Let the air wrap around you, just like his quiet sacrifices once did. Let the silence speak. Let the emptiness remind you of the love it holds.

Then—go hug him. Or call him. Say thank you.

Make it special.

🧡 For the Builders of Our Box: Happy Father’s Day.

If this piece reminded you of your own "box," your father, or your childhood room, share this with him. Or drop your story in the comments. Let’s honour the unsung architects of our dreams.