Experience | KAIROS GLOBAL | JUNE 2026

Author : Santhosh Chungath

Title: The Human-Tree Who Stood Tall

Intro

Santhosh Chungath remembers his beloved departed father through a legacy of lessons. 

Article

I was probably the only person in the seminary who had a visitor every Sunday. Whenever someone came and announced, 'Brother Francis Chungath has a visitor,' I knew it was Appan (father). There was no one else to come seeking me from home. He would be sitting quietly in the parlour, on a metal chair beside the small aquarium, its blue bulb casting a light upon Appan’s face. Appan was always like that. He spoke very little. Fathers of the seventies and eighties indeed were so. They were taught to live with love on the inside. For them, love was like a miser’s gold coin. This behaviour changed in Appan’s old age, or was it after he had grandchildren!

Anyway, my father wasn't much of a talker back then. He would just sit there listening to the little things I said. Maybe it was the excitement of my first year at the petit seminary, but I wasn't worried or anxious about home at all.

However, my parish priest, relatives, friends, and neighbours did not support my decision to join the seminary. In reality they, knowing what our life circumstances were, were not inclined to encourage me. ‘Don't forget that you're leaving takes away your father’s hope,’ my grandfather told me. Though my decision came as a shock to him, and that he was being left alone with no one to help share the responsibilities, Appan’s sadness was of a father who had been unable to have enough to adequately feed his son…

After bringing me to the seminary, and as he was leaving, Appan stood on the porch of the St Pius dormitory, waiting for the other parents to leave. Finally, and in a furtive manner, Appan gave me a kiss on the cheek. It was a new experience for both of us. There on that seminary veranda, was the first kiss I remember from my father.

Every Sunday when he’d come to see me at the seminary, I never thought to ask about things at home, always telling him about my news. I never even asked, ‘What do you do now, Appa?’ After vacations when I had to return to the seminary, I’d see Appan struggling to raise money for my fees – around three hundred rupees, which had to be paid every three months. Even then never once did I ask him, ‘How are you doing? How are you managing the family?’ When I finally did ask him that, much later, he replied with only a smile. Appan never said anything. Only later did I learn in a letter from a cousin that my father was selling lottery tickets to feed the family. By then we had lost all of my father’s businesses, agricultural fields, and other properties. Ours was a large family, consisting of my mother, four sisters, and a younger brother. My father was proud, but not wilfully so. To look after his family, he went out into the streets. 

For my father, ‘hope’ was not just a part of life; it was life itself. The courage and rejuvenation we derived from Appan’s, ‘It’ll be alright,’ simply cannot be put into words. That kind of life has taught us to work hard without waiting for miracles to happen. One of Appan’s oft-said lines was, ‘When there’s water over the house, there’ll be a boat over the water.’

I learned to ‘scrutinise’ fear from my father. Our house was on five cents surrounded by long-overgrown land. It was a house without electricity, with unpainted walls and floors covered in caked dung (traditional flooring in rural India). A forest of dense trees and uncared-for land bordered ours, and the country roads were footpaths that emerged after water had initially paved them. Even during the day, you could see vipers and other reptiles slithering through the thorn fences that bordered our land. When I was little, Ammama (grandmother) used to scare me with stories about snakes hanging low from tree branches and biting one on the head. She said that they hung like that to ensure that the bitten person would die. And I listened to it, trembling with fear and eyes wide enough to pop. Yet, it was Ammama herself who taught me to pray to St George to allay my fear. Still, snakes always scared me. The paths were always dark, and every slight movement among the dry leaf-strewn ground always made me uneasy. Appan knew that I would get startled by such sounds when we had to walk those paths. He once made me stop, held the torch over the ground for me and said, ‘Don’t run away when you see or hear something. Look at this, it is not a snake, just a small frog. If you flee in fear without looking, you will be afraid for the rest of your life.’ 

Scrutinising and knowing fear is the first step in conquering it. Appan was my textbook.

Many years later, when I realised that priesthood was not my calling, I came away from the seminary.

In those days, a person returning from seminary was a laughing stock in the community and among relatives. My father was the one who gave me courage. Whenever I had a problem, I would always seek Appan first. Even if I hadn't mentioned the problem, when I hung up the phone, I would feel a great sense of relief and courage.

The night before I first went to Kuwait, we – Appan and I – didn't sleep at all. ‘It all seems like a dream, son...we were destroyed, but God didn't forsake us, He held us together... All we prayed was that the sufferings would be endurable. And, He brought us this far. Even though I received two confiscation notices, I did not fear. Some of the people we knew even thought that we would take our lives in despair. We will not be defeated. No one can defeat us until we decide upon defeat, son... Don't be afraid, either. These obstacles and problems will disappear, and you will go forward. Don't lose courage. Appan will pray for you.'

During one of my vacations from abroad, when the entire family had gathered together after evening prayer, Appan said to my wife, ‘Do you know what, Merin, I haven't been able to give Santhosh many of the things that boys his age had. Not even enough freedom. Even though there was a river right in front of us, I wouldn't allow him to swim. I wouldn't let him ride a bicycle either. (Later, it was my brother Anto who taught me how to ride a bicycle, and that too when I was in my second year of degree.) I was afraid that he would get hurt. And no one else has been caned like he was either – my only thoughts were that he not go astray. That was all I knew… Please don’t raise Manu (our son) like that.’ As Appan said that, I could see the tears in his eyes… 

It was Appan who taught us that even when all roads close, ‘The Lord’s way is never closed.’ And Appan would pray on his knees till a candle burned down. It is easy for a praying father to introduce his children to God, the Father, who is love. How can one share love that has not been experienced?

Our greatest blessing was Appan’s prayers and his great heart.

It has now been six months since God took back that huge tree. Six months without Appan! And yet, I am not without him. Here in the desert, if I close my eyes, if I place my hands over my heart, I can see Appan, I can hear Appan… so closely do I feel his presence. And that is what Appan told us as he was bidding us goodbye. ‘I have lived with you all so happily all these years. It is now time for me to pass on. Do not fear anything. God is with you. Face everything courageously. Always be together. Take care of your mother. She has been with me since her youth. I will never forget you. Please don’t forget me either. All my children will do well.’ Appan didn't forget to entrust us siblings to each other either.

Appan taught us that prayer was the key to overcoming difficulties; he remains another scripture that we have yet to finish reading!

Even though our eyes no longer fall upon him, that Appan is there with his hands folded in prayer is our courage.  

Author Profile

Santhosh Chungath is the Senior Vice Principal of Bhavans Indian Educational School, Kuwait. A dedicated educator, he is also a teacher trainer, columnist, and writer with a keen interest in language and literature. Originally from Kundannur in Thrissur, Kerala. He is married to Merin Santhosh, and they are blessed with three children, Jerom, Sara, and Joshua.