‘I remember your wrinkled hands’: A daughter writes to her father to come to terms with his death

7 August 2022
Bedroom, Bengaluru

Dear Baba,

I am reminiscing about our days in Shillong, where you’re holding my little hand as we walk down a hilly road. The weather is crisp, the sky so blue that it’s almost turquoise. Butterflies flutter around the blue hydrangeas. I trip along, jumping over the clear little water puddles.

The Kongs, with their chequered shawls, huddled under a big black umbrella, sell sour berries. As we walk on, we pass the little chapel of your college, St Edmund’s. Your voice comes to me like an echo: “Father Canning told me that I must pursue literature.” You look so satiated with life. I feel happy to be walking with you, hand in hand.

As we, father and his little daughter, walk down, I – as I am now – climb up a hill. My view is different from up there. The climb is arduous, with sharp little rocks jutting out of nowhere, as though they want to cut and bruise my feet. My knees hurt. My heart is shattered. I want to hold on to the younger me, holding your hand. I want to frolic in the soft green bed of grass covered with yellow and white wildflowers. But...

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