My dad Vinci was initially named Boman before his mother Hilla, a highly romantic and fabulous eccentric decided that no ordinary Parsi name was good enough for her genius son who had to be named after another genius, albeit a few centuries apart – Leonardo.

She had my Indian film industry pioneer grandfather Jamshed name their wonderful seaside Bombay bungalow Casa da Vinci – a legendary backdrop to legendary parties, get-togethers for filmmakers, artists, singers, freedom fighters, trade unionists, politicians of all stripes, and friends, friends, friends - there was always someone coming home for lunch and dinner day after day. This was the milieu that my dad was raised in (and one that I fortunately experienced as well as a child).

Vinci attended high school at Dulwich College in London, then the University of London where he met his first wife Shanne Schoolman (they had a daughter Cyra who’s seen in one of the photos below), returned to India with his family, got divorced – and then met and married my mum Nargis. I came along in 1962, my brother Riyad followed five years later.

Dad was a scientist by training – he wanted to devote his brilliance to maths and physics and organic chemistry. His life unfortunately didn’t see that potential fulfilled – except in his efforts to strengthen my skills in science and mathematics (what should have been simple tutorials for the 6th grade became complex treatises that confused me even further!).

He tried to be a businessman in Bombay, but wasn’t cut out for it. There were many challenges all through his life – financial, personal, health. He transformed from an optimistic, sunny personality to one dogged by dejection – devastated ultimately by Riyad’s untimely death in 2003.

He wasn’t an easy parent – we had our challenges in communicating and connecting. But he was instrumental in pushing me to study in the US – and telling me never to return to a place where potential couldn’t be fulfilled, but rather to flourish in an environment far more conducive to creativity and spirit.

I choose to remember his great heart, his generosity and willingness to give of himself to anyone who needed assistance – his capacity for friendships that endured (even though he was often betrayed by those he considered friends).

I will remember him buying me an entire collection of Enid Blyton and Tintin books and putting them under my pillow as I slept (at the age of seven or so), one per week over the space of several months. He once slapped me hard when I stepped on a book in a fit of pique – the only time he ever raised his hand – saying that books were to be respected and honoured, no matter what. A lesson that stays with me to this day.

I remember him treating me to cake and shortbread and other delectables at the legendary Bombelli’s (Churchgate and Breach Candy), to four-course meals at Gourdon’s and, during racing season, the Turf Club in Poona (where he taught me how to use different sets of cutlery for different courses).

Another fabulous memory is of him splurging some of his winnings at the race course on a gargantuan state-of-the-art TV and multi-system VCR in the early days of video cassettes when the technology came to Bombay, which served us for years – hours and hours of movies, all the Hollywood classics, day after day; it became a ritual for the entire family – grandparents, parents, Riyad and me – to watch at least one movie every night together, family time that will stay with me always.

I will remember him sharing with me stories of his early days in England – a fish out of water initially, having to fend for himself in a tough post-war environment without the luxuries of home, facing racism and other hurdles for the first time. He never bad-mouthed his first wife despite the heartache he still felt, nor did he badmouth anyone really – except once or twice when he had been hurt to an extent that even he couldn’t forget (even if those hurts were self-incurred in so many ways).

I wish we had managed to overcome some of our differences, and indeed the differences he had with those of us in his immediate circle – but the longer I live the more I realise you cannot change anyone, you simply have to do your best to listen and understand – and that love ultimately is the only thing that should, and does, remain.

Dad passed away after an agonizing year or so on May 18, 2008, aged 77. By that time he had lost a beloved son, a beloved sister (my wonderful aunt Haidee whom he doted on) and most of his cherished childhood and other friends. The end was a merciful release from physical and emotional pain. (I recall rushing back in the hope of seeing him one last time, but he breathed his last while I was still halfway through the long journey from Vancouver to Bombay, and had to go directly to the funeral from the airport once I landed.)

Today, and always, we will remember Vinci, my Dad and thank him for all that he did for us and for so many, and tried to do – a human being, like all of us, flawed, wonderful, loving and loved.