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When I think of my fa­ther–Colonel Ma­hen­dra Nath Math­ur (Jan­u­ary 1, 1932–March 16, 2025)–I think cin­e­mat­i­cal­ly. A skat­ing rink in Sim­la, the snowy glare of the Hi­malayas around us, his hand in mine. A dark­ened the­atre in Ban­ga­lore, his gaze not on the screen but on me, de­light­ing in my laugh­ter. In­spect­ing his bat­tal­ion in Ban, laugh­ter ring­ing out as he glid­ed ef­fort­less­ly across the ice.

Those mo­ments, framed by the crisp moun­tain air and the soft glow of win­ter sun­light, re­main etched in my mem­o­ry like scenes from a cher­ished film. Ga­lore in bright white sun­light, each step pre­cise, each salute sharp. Danc­ing with my moth­er across a pol­ished wood­en floor to an army band, wind­ing up moun­tains on a toy train built by the British.

Lat­er: Walk­ing through Scar­bor­ough, brief­case in hand, an en­gi­neer who vi­su­alised the Claude Noel High­way from a he­li­copter.