“Dad, what should I make for dinner?” she asked.
My daughter, twenty-one now, standing in the kitchen with tired eyes and a wooden spoon. “Get ready,” I replied, pushing myself off the couch. “We’re going out.”
“Where to?” “Well, what do you feel like eating? Pizza? Paneer? Or maybe... dosa?”
She thought for a moment. “Dosa it is, then.”
A few minutes later, we were getting ready. I stepped into the hallway and paused at the sight of her.
“Oh dear,” I said, trying to hide my instinct behind a warm voice. “You’re not going to wear that, are you?”
She groaned. “Ugh, Dad. Why not?”
“The skirt’s too short. Wear a kurti.”
She sighed dramatically, but turned and went back into her room without a word.
Outside, the sky was restless. The clouds flashed above. The wind was cold, and not a single star was visible. It was going to rain—one of those long, thoughtful rains.
Then Lily emerged—dolled up, in a light blue kurti, earrings catching the dull hallway light, and her long hair left open. Something about her silence felt both mature and mournful.
“Let’s go,” I said.
In the car, silence filled the space between us. The soft claps of thunder became our soundtrack as the car sliced through the cold wind. Her eyes stayed fixed on the window, watching the world blur by. I didn’t need to ask how she was feeling. I knew.
We reached the dosa place, sat down at our usual table, and ordered two masala dosas and a butter paneer. Even then, the silence stayed with us, like a third companion. I tried to break it gently.
“So, Lily,” I began.
She lowered her phone, setting it down.
“How’s college?” I asked.
“It’s fine,” she replied. “Made some friends. Studies are going alright.”
I nodded. “And... how are you?” I asked again, more softly this time.
She didn’t answer. Her lips chose silence. Her eyes sank to the table.
“I know things have been hard lately,” I said after a pause. “I can’t promise everything will be fine. But I can say this—with time, things will hurt less.”
I saw her shift slightly. Her jaw tightened.
“You know,” I continued, “sometimes love changes shape. Sometimes moms and dads fall out of love. Sometimes two quiet homes can bring more peace than one loud one. Your room—it’s still yours. Nothing’s changing there, even if the weekends feel lonelier now.”
Her eyes flickered up to meet mine.
“There’s no villain here, Lily. No one’s at fault. Your mom and I... we’ll always love you the same. That won’t ever change.”
Our food arrived. I divided the dishes. We started to eat—carefully, quietly. A piece of dosa dipped in coconut chutney. My tongue recognised the flavour. My heart wandered back. She was five once. We sat at this very table—her, her mother, and me. She had giggled when the dosa tore unevenly, demanding it be "fixed." We had laughed then, all of us.
I don’t know why, but my vision blurred.
A tear dropped onto the steel plate.
I sniffled, tried to hide it behind a bite, but the thunder above didn’t care. Memories kept flashing like the lightning outside.
Then I heard a soft sound—another sniffle. I looked up.
Lily was crying too. Quietly. Her shoulders didn’t shake. Her eyes just shimmered. She didn’t wipe the tears away.
We ate in silence, our plates catching more than just crumbs—each of us quietly crying, tasting more memory than food. A silence that said more than any words could.
When we left the place, the storm had fully arrived. Rain pelted the streets, thunder cracked overhead, and traffic piled up until the car barely moved. It rained heavy, as if the storm was competing with my heart.
The car crawled forward through puddles and brake lights, the windshield blurring again and again beneath the wipers. Mist crept up the glass, quiet and cold. I played something soft—a slow piano tune that filled the car with a kind of peace, the melody syncing with the rhythm of the wipers. It felt like the night itself was breathing. Lilly dozed off not long after, wrapped in the soft embrace of her mother’s old shawl, the fabric still holding pieces of comfort from another time.
The rain didn’t stop—not for hours. We reached home sometime after midnight, both worn but quieter now. That night, we slept close. As if a few of the questions that had long lingered between us had finally been answered.
A.V
Comments
Post a Comment