A Letter to Her Daughter

 “A mindset of gratitude lifts the veil of bitterness and allows you to see beauty and possibility.” ― Steve Maraboli

June 2015 –

It was a bright sunny day, with little dew on the grass, and I was sitting in the cab, reading a book. It felt even hotter than it was outside because of high humidity. The ground was brown and parched because of the lack of rain. It was a long journey for me under the scorching heat of the sun. I was expecting to see public spaces decorated with traditional accessories to celebrate Gangaur – one of the most important festivals of Rajasthan. I was simply mesmerised by the colourful pattern. I could see women dressed brightly in embroidered attires accessorised with ornaments to please Goddess Gauri, and in turn to be blessed with good husbands.

But I was always amazed at the simplicity of the people of Rajasthan. I never stopped missing my village almost 100kms away from Jaipur where I had spent my childhood with my mother. Jaipur, the royal pink city of Rajasthan was always a cultural hub of India. The latticed havelis, ornate palaces and intricately carved temples was a major attraction for tourists. Houses with pink-latticed windows looked almost magical at sunset. I opened the car windows to immerse myself in nature. I felt as if I am in my own home. It was a rare, fleeting moment of peace as I was just a few miles away from my mother’s house. But I was broken inside as I had come to cremate my mother. I was downhearted because I knew my mother’s demise would change my life forever. I knew it would be my last trip to my village. I realized I had spent 26 years of my life without knowing about my father. Neither my mother nor my grandparents told me about him. They never entertained my curiosity to know about my father.

After my grandparents’ death, my mother looked after me. I had always been close to my grandfather who sacrificed his life to take care of my day-to-day needs. But my mother meant the world to me; she taught me so many things about life. She had a heart of gold and such a wonderful sense of humour. I could never forget her smiling face, her deep black eyes, and her massively impressive voice.  My mother could not complete her education due to financial constraints. Although she was working, it wasn't easy for her to pay rent, bills, buy food, and all – else out of her meagre salary. But she never lost her composure and she never gave up. She believed in her dream to give me best of education, and devoted her whole life to this belief. I still remembered how she would stand outside my school during my examination days, and pray to God to help me; she had worked hard and had many sleepless nights to buy me my first computer. There seemed no limit to her ecstasy when I got my scholarship for my higher studies at Boston University.

After completing my higher education in Boston, I decided to settle in New York to earn more money and support my mother. The last time I saw her was almost two years ago. I managed to save the letters my mother wrote to me in all these years. Though I never responded to all the letters but she kept writing to me. Her letters helped me to be happy while living away from home.

Finally I reached the crematorium where my relatives were waiting for me. My heart was pounding so hard, and my hands were shivering as my mother’s body was being cremated. With tears rolling down my cheeks I left the crematorium. I thought to spend some time at my home before leaving for the airport. My mother’s house was a shrine to her past life. But to me, our house was magical like a museum. For the last time, I wanted to relive my childhood days. I wanted to rediscover the lost moments of happiness ― to find peace within myself.

As I found myself in front of the house, I noticed it was old, and shingles were coming off in some places. I opened the gate of the house. The veranda was as I had left it. A few new houses no doubt had been built in the neighbourhood but there were the same aged trees all around. I unlocked the front door and walked into the living room. I had decorated it when I was too young, and it was still very much alive. For the first time, I looked at my mother’s belongings as I walked into her room. Antique lanterns and wall sconces complemented the antique interiors of the room. I had many memories of my grandfather sitting in his rocking chair. I looked at all the portraits on the wall. The vintage curtains, the mahogany-coloured wooden bookcase, and the umbrella stand made me feel quite nostalgic.

In that corner of the room, I felt to sit in my grandfather's chair to relax. I opened the bookcase to pick a book when I noticed the intricately carved box made of pure sandalwood. The box contained 108-threaded rosary gifted to my mother by my grandfather almost 32 years ago. My mother always wanted me to keep this box with me, after her. I thought to take the rosary with me as her memory, and a gift. Soon I noticed a letter kept under the rosary. Inquisitively I opened the letter to read it. It was written by my mother, and was addressed to me. As I read the letter, tears rolled down my cheeks – but still I continued to read struggling through every word written by my mother.

“Dear Ankita –

When you will get this letter I might not be any more. I remind you of what you already know in your heart – you were always my favourite. I give you my blessing for your journey, and your life. I owe you many answers that I could not answer – as they might have left you hurt.

You always wanted to know about your father. But the reality might leave you a bit more confused. After three months of my marriage – my husband left me as I was not well-educated to complement his high social status. One rainy night amidst the rapid thunderclaps – he pushed me out of his home, and life. After hours stranded on the road – I chose to walk to the nearby bus station. There were few travellers on the road and the night air chilled me to the bone. Hours passed slowly until a faint sound came to my ears. It was sound of a crying baby; the noise grew louder and louder. I looked around but there was nobody until I saw a lantern far ahead of me. Soon I started following the lantern; the crying became louder and clearer to me. Due to incessant rain I lost my way, and the lantern disappeared. Tired and strained to find a shelter, I approached a temple.

As I entered the temple, I could hear the muffled sound of a baby’s cries. I could hear the sound of a crying baby from somewhere within the temple premises. I looked around, and found a white cloth under the pile of dried leaves. I tried to dig under the pile of leaves to grab the cloth, and found you wrapped inside it. I took you out, and you were loudly crying. I looked around for your parents but there was nobody. There was a one line note tied to your feet with a black thread – ‘we already have three daughters and we cannot afford one more daughter.’ I waited for hours thinking your parents might regret and come to take you. But nobody came for next two days. I accepted you as God’s plan for me. You were my only hope to live my life. With my mind-boggled state – I embraced you, and took you to my home. Since then I never looked back. You were my heart, and my soul.

But this is not the end of my story. You have the potential to fulfil my dream to setup a school for the girls in our village to provide them adequate education – for their bright future.  I always wanted to share my dream with you but life never gave me a chance. I want my home to be converted into a school for our village children. I want you to bring the best academic facilities for our village children so that no girl child is left to die, and no woman is exploited because of not being highly educated.  My heart and prayers are with you forever.”

I could not stop crying as I finished reading the letter. I opened my eyes, and it was just like a flash because I broke into tears; I kept the rosary cocooned in its box. I took my mother’s green bangles out of her wardrobe, and just embraced them. Her cotton sarees were still hanging in a row.

Next morning, as I walked in the backyard the cold air touched my hair. I felt the warmth of my mother’s hand when she used to oil my hair. With the first light on her pot of water – I could listen to the clink of her anklets. She was not there but still I could feel her around me. And, I called my travel agent to cancel my tickets to New York.

“The rosary is the book of the blind, where souls see and there enact the greatest drama of love the world has ever known; it is the book of the simple, which initiates them into mysteries and knowledge more satisfying than the education of other men; it is the book of the aged, whose eyes close upon the shadow of this world, and open on the substance of the next. The power of the rosary is beyond description.” ― Archbishop Fulton Sheen