I was an awkward & pessimistic little child. I was thinking mummy’s depressed & psychotic thoughts. In the wake of that, I didn’t have a relationship with my father. He didn’t try & we didn’t have a template or the time. I was living with my grandparents. I saw him during summers & mummy took up all my time & energy with her over-participative parenting.
I remember a stray moment from when I was 3, home for the summer. Mummy wasn’t there. My guess is she had left for Nashik in anger. I was sleeping next to papa in a moon-lit room. None of us spoke. I wanted to hug him. I did that the only way I knew to. I told him to put his head on my arm.
He said my arm would hurt. I said it won’t. He agreed. He put his head on my tiny right arm. My arm started hurting in a minute. I told him after 2.
This is where the memory ends. It has been the black&white flashback film that plays every time I realize I don’t have a relationship with papa. Lots of memories, but no relationship.
Last week papa came into my room when he realized I didn’t seem fine. He didn’t leave until I told him how I felt. He told me how he has been feeling.
Today, for the first time papa & I were left alone at home. Mummy & R are in Nasik. We went out to buy a pair of jeans for papa. We came back & watched a cricket match. He sat where he sits, I sat where I do, in his room. I oiled my hair, put on a face pack, and cut my nails over the period of the match. He exclaimed at the good & bad balls. He got food. I almost fell asleep. But couldn’t. What a beauty a one-day match is! It was raining outside. A cool breeze was blowing. I had cozied under a blanket next to him. We made fun of the commentators & aggressively assured each other that India would win. I told him how I like most of the new Ford, Fogg, and World Cup ads. We ate dinner.
After, papa was sleepy but the match wasn’t over. I moved to the living room tv. Papa was reluctantly about to switch his tv off when Bumra got a wicket. Papa yelled from his room “Prachiii” I yelled back from mine “I saawww” I imagined him telling me that Bumra is the best bowler in the world, again. I imagined the 3-year-old Prachi feeling warm, on a moon-lit almost morning.