The waves came crashing. The froth kissed the wet sand and the receding water took with it, the foot prints on the shore.

Myra felt peaceful looking at a family that was enjoying on the beach.

A little girl, about five or six years old, was holding her father’s hands as he took her towards the sea. As they came closer to the waters, the little girl slipped her hand away from her father’s hold and ran to play in the shallow pool formed by the receding waves. Her father, a young man, ran towards her to save her from the incoming waves.

Myra’s heart skipped a beat, she wanted to run after that girl and pull her out of the waves before they hit her, but something inside her said not to.

The little girl’s feet slipped and an big wave was about to hit her. But her father caught hold of her and pulled her out. He picked her up in his arms and kissed her a thousand times. He looked at her innocent and scared face.

“I am sorry Daddy, I will never leave your hand and go away.” She hugged him tightly. “But you will also have to promise me that you won’t ever let me leave your hand.” She said.

“I promise, my dear princess,” was all her father could say, though he was aware that one day, both the promises would break.

Myra looked at them and felt her heart heavy; a tear escaped her eyes and fell on the sand. She looked at her hands, the henna had formed beautiful patterns on her palms, a name, very familiar, was enmeshed in the design, somewhat hidden in it. She looked at the ring on her ring finger, clearly affirming that she was engaged to someone. She quickly grabbed her purse and took out a picture from it. Her father and a young Myra looked back at her. They looked like that little girl and her father, she had seen on the beach. Myra too had spoken the same words to her father, little did she knew that she would herself break the promise one day.

The sky had changed its colour. It was dark and cold now. She looked at the picture one last time before keeping it back in her purse. She stood up and drove back home.

One week later…

Myra stood at the door of her house, looking brilliant in her bridal attire. Her shimmering jewels, her dazzling reds and her pretty face. She stepped out of the door, and stood   with her hands clasped together to form a cup, as her aunt put some rice into her henna covered cupped palms. A ritual meant to symbolically represent repaying of the rice the father had fed the daughter, Myra never quite liked it.

The groom’s arms closed on to her from behind to help her perform the ritual. With her blurry eyes, she looked at him, he smiled at her and gave her a look of assurance that he would be there with her always. She moved her hand above her head and threw the rice with whatever force she could gather in her trembling arms. The rice scattered all over the floor. She did the same two more times.

It was time to bid adieu. Myra couldn’t move ahead, when she was told to. She looked at her mother, she was crying too, like her. Memories hung around, sobs made the air heavy. She hugged her mother tightly and then her other relatives. At last, she looked at her father, who had been standing there the whole time and watching her. She moved towards him. He opened her hands to welcome her daughter for a hug, just the way he had done when the nurse at the hospital had brought her in front of him, many years ago. Myra held her father, tight. Tears, she wasn’t able to stop them. Emotions, they made such a rush!

“Father, I am breaking the promise, I am sorry.” That was all Myra could say.

He let loose, “I am breaking the promise too, Myra.” He kissed her forehead.

Myra made her way, as her hands slipped out of her father’s. Her father watched her go away with her prince. He silently thanked God for giving him a daughter.

No one else was able to understand what Myra and her father had told each other at that time. Not even Myra’s prince.