It was a laid-back Sunday afternoon. My father was outside, dyeing his hair and cleaning the garden like always. Inside, my mum worked her magic in the kitchen, filling the house with the comforting aroma of her Bihari chicken curry. And right on cue, we would all gather around the TV for the weekly Doordarshan movie premiere, a tradition that only happened during Sunday lunch because schools were shut. That day, the film was Aandhi, a 1975 romantic drama starring Sanjeev Kumar and Suchitra Sen. I still remember the moment when JK, Kumar’s character, silently drops his ex-wife Aarti, Sen’s character, to the helicopter that takes her away, because that’s when I noticed my father’s eyes welling up. It wasn’t the first time I saw him cry, the first was when my grandfather died. I was only three, and my only memory from that day is of my father, inconsolable and almost child-like in grief.
Back then, I believed that crying was a sign of weakness. No one corrected me. By then, my parents had settled into their rhythm of parenting. They knew the drill, and there wasn’t much left to explain. I figured things out on my own, picking up beliefs and stitching together ideologies by watching the people around me. And one of those beliefs was this: I would never become my father. He was not a bad or weak man, but I was afraid of inheriting the parts of him I didn’t understand or like.
Yet, cut to 2025, and there I was, watching at 2 am, tears streaming down with every episode. And in that quiet, emotional unraveling, it hit me: I had become my father. Despite all the resistance and promises I made to myself, I am him.
But as we grow older, life softens that resistance. Now, I find myself repeating my father’s gestures, using his sayings, and sometimes, even approaching problems with the same anxiousness or stubborn pride. It’s not that I have given up on being our own person, it’s that I have begun to understand where he is coming from, and realise his ways were shaped by fear, love, and hope, just like mine.
When I started watching the show, I wasn’t expecting a “bittersweet” Korean series to feel so personal. The show is gentle, slow-paced, and simple, a story about family, memory, and the strange, often bittersweet symmetry between generations. But as I watched, something shifted in me. Scene after scene, character after character, I started seeing someone familiar reflected in me: My father. And then, unsettlingly, myself.
As a child, and later as a teenager, I became hyper-aware of the traits that made his life complicated. His temper that flared over small things, his inability to articulate an apology when he was wrong, his habit of pushing through stress while ignoring his health, and his refusal to slow down. He carried the weight for everything, not silently, but out loud, in arguments, in sharp ripostes, in anxious silences. I told myself I would be different. I had to be. But I am no different.
Similar to how Gem Yong in the show tries not to be her father. She, deep down, associated his quietness and self-sacrifice with emotional distance. Growing up, she saw Gwan Shik as someone who gave so much of himself but never really asked for anything.
She didn’t want to live a life where she constantly put others first and lost her own voice in the process. So she pushed against that part of herself, trying to be more independent, more vocal, maybe even a little rebellious, anything to avoid feeling stuck or unseen like she thought her father was. But, in trying not to be him, she still carried so much of him inside her. The strength, the loyalty, they were in her, too.
As a teenager, I used to hate it when my father insisted we spend every summer holiday at my nani’s place instead of going on a proper family vacation. His reason? “You won’t be able to finish your holiday homework if we go traveling.” It frustrated me to no end. I swore I’d never do that to my own kids one day. I imagined a future full of spontaneous trips and zero homework talk. But now, when I get the chance to mother my nephews, something surprising happens. In those small moments—reminding them to finish their work before playing, or saying “maybe next time” to a fun plan—I hear my father in my own voice. I use the same reasoning, the same tone, and I catch myself mid-sentence. And in that pause, I realise exactly where it’s coming from, from a place of care and quiet love.
I spent a large part of my adolescence and early adulthood trying to distance myself from him, not emotionally, but behaviourally. I wanted to be calm, open to criticism, able to laugh at my flaws, unbothered by the messiness of life. I promised myself I’d never yell, I’d never put work before well-being, and most of all, I’d never be vulnerable but I became oversensitive with time.
Adulthood has a way of humbling you. Slowly, quietly, it makes you look into mirrors you’ve been avoiding. When Life Gives You Tangerines became one such mirror. The show doesn’t dramatise family tension; it whispers it. It shows how love can be stubborn and imperfect and how, without realising it, we become the very people we swore we’d never be. Somewhere in those scenes, the quiet resentment of an adult child, the misplaced affection of a well-meaning parent, I saw my own life panning out.
I am my father.
