My daughter is the reason why I am here today. She is truly a sight to behold, with her wavy, brown hair and eyes that match, her freckles spread over her face like sand granules on a beach and her smile, always so bright. Her heart is equally charming, warm, and sincere, innocent but fierce, benignant, and beautiful. Looking at her now that she’s a fine young woman, takes me back to the time when she was a small flower bud yet to bloom.
I generally avoid delving into the past. I forgive but never forget. I lived a content and dignified life in my natal home. My father was an IPS officer, so the environment I grew up in was very distinct compared to my in-laws' house. I whispered secrets to the trees and danced with the wind, raced my friends, and engraved temporary illustrations on the pavement with chalk. I engrossed myself in novels for hours on end. The sky outside was a gloomy dark hue with white paint brush strokes of thunder but with each page I turned, my heart would expand with immeasurable joy.
Political Science was my favorite subject. Studying about the systematic rule of order in society, authoritative institutions, rights, and power fuelled my inquisitiveness. At some point in my life, I had decided to appear for the UPSC exam, however, I was unable to do so due to my marriage. It lasted a mere three years. Three years or three hundred is never enough when you love someone dearly. I remember very vividly a day before my birthday when my husband rode out on his bike and never returned home. The hospital he was admitted to reeked of antiseptics and decay.
When I saw him, his rosy cheeks were pale as the white sheet he lay in, his body traversing between life and death. I desperately wished to hold his hand, to take his agony and discomfort away, and protect him from the incoming storm but I was timid to do so due to being surrounded by our relatives. I would’ve reached out had I known the inevitable, I would’ve done a million things differently. I wept and wailed for hours on end, till I had no sense of my surroundings. Late at night, I returned home but could not, would not sleep. The sound of our car pulling in gave me hope, but then I heard a voice saying, “I could not save him”.
Words are letters strung together, but they hold immense impact. My world started crumbling in front of me. I screamed and begged and pleaded, but God was unwilling to bargain. The storm raged on and for the first time, I felt it within me, so dreadful, so horrifying. He had promised me, I thought to myself. He had promised that we would celebrate my birthday together. His promise was an unfulfilled one. I wandered the house in search of him and called out his name, but the only shadow I could see through the light of the lamp was mine. Our daughter was of the tender age of 3, too young to be cognizant of demise. She pointed to the sky one night and told me that she believed her father to be one of the many twinkling diamonds.
The years that followed my husband’s death were unspeakable and torturous. My relatives had turned my sorrow into their pleasure by taking undue advantage of my situation. Lust from men in the household, exploitation due to being a single mother, and the mental torture of being a widow often led to feeling defeated and subdued. I was, fortunately, earning as a teacher back then, so I was financially able to provide for and protect my daughter, but not enough to find a new place to live in. At times, I confided in my friends about the prospect of running away, but they reminded me that it was laughable to think that I would be safe outside, considering that I wasn’t at my own house. The storm kept worsening over time.
Relatives often taunted and ridiculed me, but I had to be resilient, for myself and my daughter. On a rare occasion, I stood my ground and declared that my husband’s property was my right as much as his, that they could not tell me what to do with it. That silenced them, but not for long. My daughter was equally courageous and tough-minded. She was mature for her age but that never desensitized her. Her heart belonged to her mother, she stroked my hair whenever I cried and reassured me, sat late at night at the dining table when everyone else boycotted me and defended me in whichever way she could. The flair and brilliance she portrayed in various situations created feelings of resentment and bitterness from others. They, in turn, neglected her and didn’t treat her like the other children in the house.
I could feel the storm subside with each day I spent with her. She became my hope, my pillar of strength, and my pride. Over the years, I saw my little girl grow into an accomplished woman.
She bought me gifts for my birthday, with the little pocket money she had. She relished food and public speaking, dancing, and playing with animals. She secured various accolades throughout her life and even got her first job at 19 years of age.
“If anyone disrespects my mother, I will not hesitate to cut them out of my life” she often proclaimed with firmness and valor.
I believe it to be a blessing to be her mother. It was truly an extensive challenge, one that I could never have done without her. I find myself looking at the picture of my husband on the wall in my new house, wishing he were here to see how hatred and trauma did not break our daughter, but instead, invoked a fiery zeal within, which I promise to protect forever. The storm has strayed far, far away. My daughter is my sunshine now.
~ Anonymous.
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