Today...

Had it been like any other day? Or did I force myself to imagine it such. Everything around me was normal, but my heart bled. A never-ending wait for that one phone call had stretched over a year. Finally, they called yesterday morning. “The time has come”. And despite having known the day would come, I could not control my tears.

I took the early morning flight to Bagdogra to reach Kalimpong by noon.

A year ago...

I woke up at 6am and sipped a glass of warm water with honey and lemon — an early morning ritual she had loved to shared with me. That day, my morning walk was shorter. Restless, I turned towards home to check on her. I entered her room and there she was, sleeping in her bed, her face as calm as still water. I quietly kissed her on the forehead and stepped out.

The paperwork had been completed; they would arrive any time. They said the morning was the best time to take her. I made myself a cup of coffee and sat down at the blue table overlooking the vast expanse of the mountains. Blue was her favourite colour.

It had been two years since we moved to Kalimpong, a sleepy town nestled in the hills of West Bengal. I had bought the house from a second-generation plantation family that was moving to Mumbai. Strange it was, they were moving to my city to start a new life and I was moving to theirs to reclaim what was left of mine.

Coffee has always been my favourite, and yet, that morning I couldn’t finish it. I saw the steam rise from the mug, form mysterious shapes in the cold morning air and remembered how she would look at the shapes and talk about what they might be.

Imagination had been her forte. I was always intrigued by her questions about space, time, god, religion, love, life — her questions much more spiritual than one would expect from her. It was her questions that made me explore spirituality.

Today...

When I think of it, I feel she was preparing me to be strong enough to face what life had in store for me. Maybe she had known all along.
I reached the airport well ahead of time. Travel has been a personal favourite and I loved airports. The meeting point of various cultures, and most importantly, people, fascinated me. But today, it is different. All I can think of is the first time I had travelled with her. I had been so anxious about how she would take to travel. “Will she be scared? Will she be fine?” I had wondered. But eventually, we had a great flight and she surprised me with her composure. I can never forget that smile, the excitement of her first flight.

As I settle in the flight, a pretty young lady takes the aisle seat next to me. Her excitement and amazement echoes it, her first flight it was. She looks at me with a can-I-get-the-window-seat look. I wouldn’t have given it up but I was not in a mood to enjoy the clouds or the mountains, something I am very fond of. And the flight to Bagdogra over the Himalayan range was a spectacular experience, with a view of the mighty Everest. The young lady tells me she is heading to Bagdogra to meet her dad, who is posted there in a hydroelectric project. She rattles off many things but her name jolts me. Zenia, she says, and the name floats in the space between us.

The echo of the name takes me back to the day when I first heard her name in her voice. It was music to my ears and I still remember how happy I was — I kept calling my family and friends repeatedly to share my elation. I excuse myself and closed my eyes to control my tears. Sleep gets better of me; the stress of the last 24 hours has had it toll. 

I woke up to the landing announcement. The car was waiting. We drive up the highway along Teesta towards Kalimpong.
 

A year ago...

I heard their footsteps as they walked along the pebbled path outside our house. I dragged myself to the door when I heard the knock, as if someone had tied heavy stones to my feet. The door opened to a lady accompanied with four ward boys.

We sat at the table and went through the papers one last time. They assured me they would take good care of her.

I could hear her call to me. She had developed a particular shrill shout to call me. When I went to see her, I was surprised to see a very peaceful pair of eyes looking at me with open arms. I hugged her and broke down. I don’t remember how long I cried, but I remember she did not shed a single tear. She smiled, as if reassuring me that all will be fine. The team asked me to step back so that they could take her to her new home. I slowly stepped back, her eyes that I loved the most, slowly moistening.
They took her away. As they stepped out of the house, I could see her head move from one side to the other. Just before stepping out of the boundary wall, they turned her, as if allowing us a final goodbye. I wanted to run to her, hold on to her, bring her back. All I could do was stretch my hand towards her, as if calling out to her one last time, wishing for another warm hug. I heard the engine start and I ran out of the house. As I reached the road, all I could see was a cloud of dust settling down.
 

Today...

I reach my destination. They have been waiting for me and whisk me to her room. I am seeing her after a month and the visible deterioration of her health is shocking. Her angelic face so pale, looked stoned, bereft of all expressions, her eyes hidden from the world. Her body is frail and skinny. She has been in a coma for 15 days, sans any chance of revival, they say. Her lungs failed and she has been kept on a life support system for five days. It’s time, they say.

I ask for a few moments with her. They leave me alone. I sit next to her, gently stroking her hair, an action she had loved.

A car knocked her down in broad daylight on a busy road in Mumbai and left her to die. No one helped her until the police came and admitted her. Doctors said her spinal cord had been damaged and a head injury had caused partial brain damage. 

And here I am today, being asked to grant permission to shut down the life support system and let my daughter die. A helpless father unable to save his little princess. The one I had brought up so dearly is now ready for her final journey. I close my eyes and our time together flashes by—her first gummy smile, the first time she called me ‘pappa’, her little pecks, her chatter, her questions, her enthusiasm...her smile. Now, she will only be a part of my memories, my dreams, locked in my heart.

I get up from my seat next to the bed, pick up the papers left on a nearby table and sign it. There is a red rose in a vase in the room. I quickly scribble a few lines on a sheet of paper, pick up the rose and hand them to the nurse as I walk out. Give this to my daughter when she sets out for that last walk, I urge.

Dear Zenia,

A very happy 10th birthday.

With love, Pappa