Letter to my Daughter IV

Little One,

When will you read these letters, love? Here at work I sit in a shared cubicle and look ahead at a small coral and shell decorated rounded mirror, right into my eyes. They are deep down in buckets of shoeshine, especially so in their stark contrast to the silver streaks over my temple, stealing all the attention. That's all I can see in that small little mirror. If not for these two elements, I think mommy could pass off for a fairly young person. Giving suitable competition to the didis she teaches. But I also see that you have the mommy-eyes, brown. Like wood, or soil -- encompassing stories. Baaun aaiiz, yes.

The only probable difference could be how fresh yours are, as compared to how aged mine are. While yours stand for inquisitiveness, mine accepts. From this point I will try and answer, "Where is Daddy?"

Niharika, Daddy is a good man who does not stay with us. Daddy is a gentleman who left me when you came around. Daddy couldn't own me with you. But we won't blame Daddy for that, right child? Of the many kinds of people in this world, Daddy was the type who couldn't stand up for his choice. Or, be strong and stable. Daddy couldn't fathom what it would be to love you. I did. So now, when we are on the terrace and having deep conversations about finding a solution on how to manage time, and how to manage you, we will not be disturbed by whether we have a Daddy to pull us through or not. You in your hot pants and spaghetti singlets sipping some kind of beverage and your black mickey anklet popping golden eyes at me and me with my drink in my loose whites and a darn brass anklet looking back at you. We don't have one, you see. But you have me. And me, little one, I have you.

When we return from one of our movie-nights, or are bored with one while at home, and move on to Daddy-talks that have substantially infested your curiosity, I shall brave the story. But till then I have to tell you that no Daddy could have eased out this feeling of uselessness I often have, while at work. At least I have you to write to. He bloody did not even leave a trace of an address to follow. Chinks, we will return to "Where is Daddy?" on a better day. When the trees are lilting wistfully in a soft breeze and the evening is slowly melting, and leaves like an orange candy, all over your fair face.

I love you,
Mommy.