She stood there bristling. "Dad. What would you know about girls' clothes? Why you hardly know about boys styles !" Having said that scathingly, she took one look at my face and the next minute she was hugging me close. Arms wrapped around me, she said, gently " That didn't sound the way i meant it to. I mean, dad i love you, and your the bestest dad ever, but if i wear those baggy jeans, i won't have any friends left in college. So please, next time ? Let me choose my jeans myself, ok ? " Sighing, i agreed, hugging her back, then reminding her to text me when she reached college. With a shake of the head, and an exasperated look, she was gone, her " Goodbye Dad," wafting elusively around the house.
Strange how suddenly teenage struck. One moment you had a sweet, trusting little child, who looked to you for everything, including clothes ! The next you had a rebellious teen, staring you down, and making you feel archaic, ancient. Everything about her had changed. From neat, parted hair, worn in two long plaits, she went to short, dishevelled crop. From skirts and tights and kurtas, she went to slim fit acid jeans, washed, even torn at the knees and tees, much shorter than she had ever worn before. From books and more books, she went to facebook and the ubiquitous cell phone. From avid discussions we went to heated arguments. From our daily shared dose of dinner and who-dun-its, we went to solo meals, and double entendre sitcoms, that repulsed me.
It had never been easy, bringing up a child as a single parent. So i figured the best way to do it, would be to treat her as an adult. She had been five, when her mother chose to walk away from our lives, never to look back again. At first she clung to me, so that i had to take a flexitime job, before i abandoned it altogether, and discovered my calling in writing. From sleeping to the sound of the clatter of my keyboard, she grew to reading my drafts, over my shoulder. From baby, she bloomed to child, then teen. My best friend and worst critic, i lost to the vagaries of hormonal surges.
I left the home, after she did, going for a short walk to clear my head, and air my thoughts. These days, i had a lot of time, to catch up with my writing, which was good and bad. Good, because it was what i did for a living. Bad because, it was not as satisfying any more. My thoughts meandered around how i needed to take a "chill pill" as she put it, this vulnerable rebel who lived in my daughter's body these days. Yes, i had to learn to let go. My fledgeling was ready to fly the nest.
I entered the home to soft sobs, that came from the vicinity of the sofa. My heart skipping a beat, i touched her shoulder, "Want to tell me, what happened ?" With a sob, she sat up, then burst into tears. head buried into my stomach, she mumbled something that sounded like, " I've got it. I've got the scholarship to the institute." My heart did the sinking act once again. We had filled the forms together, for the two year course offered by the Institute of Journalism, Australia. Catch 22, situation for me, because much as i loved the thought of her following in my footsteps, i was not prepared to let her go. Not this early, anyway. She was just seventeen. I knew also that it would break her heart if she didn't get the scholarship. It was i who had taught her to dream, to follow her dreams. Ironical then that i should have to pay the price by losing her. Holding her close, unable to speak, i smiled, the tears that sprung to my eyes, betraying my mixed feelings. "I'm so happy for you," I said, when the lump in my throat allowed me to speak. "Go. It's the chance of a lifetime." Wiping the tears from her eyes, she half laughed as she reached to wipe mine. "You are such a cry baby, dad. Boys are not supposed to burst into tears at the drop of a hat." True, but then, we'd laughed together as much as we had cried.
When my wife had left us for good, and a small hand had reached up to wipe my nose with a tissue, before planting a small kiss on it, i"d cried. The time when her best friend had moved from town, she had cried and we had drowned her sorrows in ice cream, two whole tubs of it. When i took her puddle hopping in the rains for the first time, we had laughed in shared delight, when she had helped an old blind beggar, across the street, i beamed with pride. When i lay sick and shivering with malaria, she had, against her grandmother's advice, sat beside my bed the entire night. When the first pizza that i made, got burnt, she solemnly ate the crust, declaring it to be the best ever, how she always praised my efforts at cooking, no matter what it tasted like.
How could i ever let her go.
The next two days were quiet. I retreated into my own world. Grieving at my loneliness, even before she had left. Worrying about how young and impressionable she still was. From her room came the furious clacking of the keyboard. Finally she emerged. "It's done, dad. I've confirmed my applications. For the Institute of Jounalism. Banglore. Seeing the shocked look on my face, she held up a hand. "I'm not ready to go. Australia's been in the news for all the wrong reasons, and so i've decided, im staying here. " Nothing i could say convinced her otherwise. I held her close. She had grown stronger and more perceptive too, when i was not looking.
Strange how suddenly teenage struck. One moment you had a sweet, trusting little child, who looked to you for everything, including clothes ! The next you had a rebellious teen, staring you down, and making you feel archaic, ancient. Everything about her had changed. From neat, parted hair, worn in two long plaits, she went to short, dishevelled crop. From skirts and tights and kurtas, she went to slim fit acid jeans, washed, even torn at the knees and tees, much shorter than she had ever worn before. From books and more books, she went to facebook and the ubiquitous cell phone. From avid discussions we went to heated arguments. From our daily shared dose of dinner and who-dun-its, we went to solo meals, and double entendre sitcoms, that repulsed me.
It had never been easy, bringing up a child as a single parent. So i figured the best way to do it, would be to treat her as an adult. She had been five, when her mother chose to walk away from our lives, never to look back again. At first she clung to me, so that i had to take a flexitime job, before i abandoned it altogether, and discovered my calling in writing. From sleeping to the sound of the clatter of my keyboard, she grew to reading my drafts, over my shoulder. From baby, she bloomed to child, then teen. My best friend and worst critic, i lost to the vagaries of hormonal surges.
I left the home, after she did, going for a short walk to clear my head, and air my thoughts. These days, i had a lot of time, to catch up with my writing, which was good and bad. Good, because it was what i did for a living. Bad because, it was not as satisfying any more. My thoughts meandered around how i needed to take a "chill pill" as she put it, this vulnerable rebel who lived in my daughter's body these days. Yes, i had to learn to let go. My fledgeling was ready to fly the nest.
I entered the home to soft sobs, that came from the vicinity of the sofa. My heart skipping a beat, i touched her shoulder, "Want to tell me, what happened ?" With a sob, she sat up, then burst into tears. head buried into my stomach, she mumbled something that sounded like, " I've got it. I've got the scholarship to the institute." My heart did the sinking act once again. We had filled the forms together, for the two year course offered by the Institute of Journalism, Australia. Catch 22, situation for me, because much as i loved the thought of her following in my footsteps, i was not prepared to let her go. Not this early, anyway. She was just seventeen. I knew also that it would break her heart if she didn't get the scholarship. It was i who had taught her to dream, to follow her dreams. Ironical then that i should have to pay the price by losing her. Holding her close, unable to speak, i smiled, the tears that sprung to my eyes, betraying my mixed feelings. "I'm so happy for you," I said, when the lump in my throat allowed me to speak. "Go. It's the chance of a lifetime." Wiping the tears from her eyes, she half laughed as she reached to wipe mine. "You are such a cry baby, dad. Boys are not supposed to burst into tears at the drop of a hat." True, but then, we'd laughed together as much as we had cried.
When my wife had left us for good, and a small hand had reached up to wipe my nose with a tissue, before planting a small kiss on it, i"d cried. The time when her best friend had moved from town, she had cried and we had drowned her sorrows in ice cream, two whole tubs of it. When i took her puddle hopping in the rains for the first time, we had laughed in shared delight, when she had helped an old blind beggar, across the street, i beamed with pride. When i lay sick and shivering with malaria, she had, against her grandmother's advice, sat beside my bed the entire night. When the first pizza that i made, got burnt, she solemnly ate the crust, declaring it to be the best ever, how she always praised my efforts at cooking, no matter what it tasted like.
How could i ever let her go.
The next two days were quiet. I retreated into my own world. Grieving at my loneliness, even before she had left. Worrying about how young and impressionable she still was. From her room came the furious clacking of the keyboard. Finally she emerged. "It's done, dad. I've confirmed my applications. For the Institute of Jounalism. Banglore. Seeing the shocked look on my face, she held up a hand. "I'm not ready to go. Australia's been in the news for all the wrong reasons, and so i've decided, im staying here. " Nothing i could say convinced her otherwise. I held her close. She had grown stronger and more perceptive too, when i was not looking.
And that, was one of the most brilliant pieces iv ever read! All the while i thought it was a single mother!
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