To Dad

Dad (if I may call you that),

I know I will probably never find the courage to send this letter to you, but someday, I hope you will know its contents.

I’m the daughter you threw out of the house on that fateful day, 3 July 1986, and swore to kill if you ever saw again. The one whom you called a disgrace and a liar, among other not so nice things. Your youngest child, the apple of your eye, for just 17 short years.

Where did it all go wrong? I still vividly remember you lying down on the floor to be the ‘mountain’ I crawled over, laughing when I fell on my fat little face . Piggyback rides, secretively scrubbing out popsicle stains from my shirts so that Mother wouldn’t know , playing backyard cricket (you and me on a team, losing spectacularly to Khalid and Ali)-we’ve done it all.

But then when we shifted to Britain, I noticed that your attitude towards me started to change. I must have been around ten. You joined some sort of religious prayer community, and took only Khalid and Ali with you, cutting into our time together. You insisted on strict purdah, warned my own brothers to restrict communication with me, and literally placed me under house arrest. I was unable to fathom what was happening. My new girls school and the changed atmosphere at home, in a new and foreign land, disoriented me completely. I dedicated myself to academics, topping the class, hoping against hope that you would praise me when you nonchalantly signed my report cards. But you never did. Seven long years passed.

My only solace during this time was the drama school you allowed me to attend, escorted by Ali. Miss. Buntham, our director, recognized my potential at once, and cast me as Juliet in the annual play when I was 17, opposite Ronald. I didn’t reveal this exciting secret to anyone at home, hoping to surprise you all with my performance. I placed the invitation card on your table, and, without daring to raise my eyes from my feet, murmured that I hoped you would attend (you had never attended any of my earlier plays). You grunted a yes and walked off. I was exhilarated; finally, I would be doing something to make you proud! I put my heart and soul into the project, carefully rehearsing lines, expressions and accents.

The play was a resounding success, but you never turned up. None of you did. I was spotted by a movie producer who said he would let me audition for a role. Heart hammering, I regretfully refused, knowing that to you movies were taboo. I came home to find utter chaos. Someone had told you that I had kissed Ronald on stage, which was utter rubbish, but you believed it nonetheless. Shouting senselessly, you beat me, pulled out my hair, and worst of all, tore my precious drama certificate. You incited Khalid and Ali to go to Ronald’s house and abuse him, threatening him with dire consequences if he continued to take ‘liberties’ with me. For days you locked me in my room, in an agony of fear and pain, until you finally dispossessed me and threw me on the streets, saying that Allah would never forgive you if you harboured me any longer. You even told me that if I stayed, I would be a victim of an ‘honor killing’, to salvage your lost dignity. All my pleas and explanations went unheeded. Did you never remember me even once, not even during Mother’s funeral?

I somehow found my way back to India and today, I work with the United Nations to help empower women and children all over the globe. I have saved so many precious lives from abuse, slavery and suicide due to sheer desperation. I head the ‘Asian and Pacific Congregation for Rights of Women and Child’ (APCRWC). The Time magazine even called me the ‘modern crusader for equality and compassion’. Did you know that?

There is so much you don’t know.

To forgive is to heal, Daddy, and there is so much to forgive.

I forgive you……..Will you call me Bitiya again? Will you accept me back with that lopsided smile and a popsicle?

And do you know something else? These days, those who knew you tell me I’m just like you. The same eyes, same stubborn streak, same political viewpoints. Just like you.



[Note-This letter is purely a work of fiction, based loosely on true life incidents]