Letting Go is Tough

She said, “Shit, I don’t know, Papa. Is he really the one?”

She took the hot mug of tea in her hand and held it close to her chest. The wisps of steam from the tea fogged her glasses. She didn’t notice. She crossed her legs under her and looked over at her Papa. He was sitting on the sofa adjacent to her, looking at her and smiling that charming killer smile of his. She had been very close to her Papa and when cancer had finally taken him, the vacuum that he had left in her life was something that she had never been able to fill. Not with anything, not with anybody. The truth was, it was a wound she didn’t want to heal. Deep down, in a dark corner of her soul, she was afraid that if it healed or if the vacuum was filled, she would forget him, she would forget his face, she would forget his smile. That was her biggest nightmare--that one day she would no longer need him anymore.

“Papa, you are not helping. What do you think? Should I, you know, be taking him seriously? Half the time, I don’t even know what he is thinking. I know he likes me. I love him, that I know. But is he really that guy? Say something!!! Here's me asking and you're sitting like a rock,” she cried. The boy worked with her in the office, though in another department. She had not even known he existed before they worked on a project together. Even then, to her, he was this guy who was always aloof, spoke very little, had his own set of friends, and was not very comfortable around her. She got to know him better during the project party—a few drinks always helped.

As months passed, she was irresistibly drawn to him with a passion and fervor she had never experienced before. But she was confused, too. He was everything she was not—her polar opposite in every possible way. She was a chatterbox, open and transparent. He was reserved, loved to be in his shell, hardly articulating his feelings. She was independent and honest; much more than he was or ever could be. But then, there were a lot of similarities, too. Both of them loved to travel. He loved food as much as she did. Both were experience junkies. And most of all, both loved being around each other.

But, today, she was confused. The tea had gone cold. She looked at her father’s face—his smile her constant source of strength.

“Tell me, Papa,” she implored. He leaned back in his chair and looked at his daughter. His younger one, the one that was the most like him. The one that was most on his mind during his last days. The one he still visited. The one that talked to him many times in a day, every day. He had watched her grow up into this beautiful woman—strong and independent, a little too self-righteous, hopelessly idealistic, sometimes confused, a little na?ve. Every time she talked to him, he felt this bitter ache where his heart used to be, this fierce longing for the place he was forced to leave before his time. That was the only time that he cursed the Gods for their heartless brutality.

“Let me tell you a story, about me and your mother. Back in the days, when we were courting, we had almost no chance to see each other. Your mother was always scared that someone would see us and tell her father and all hell would then break loose. Even though we were in the same town, all we could manage were quick glances on the road, a stolen smile in the temple, secret letters that were shared through common friends, and if we were really lucky, a snatch of a conversation behind the temple pond. But even when we had nothing, we had something that nobody could take away from us. It was our secret and something we did together. Every night at 7:30, I’d come out of my house and she would come out of hers and we would look at the moon. Together. Me from my place and she from hers –but it was the same moon and it gave us this feeling of togetherness; that we were doing something together; as if the moon would let her know that she was all that was there in my mind at that moment. Even when she was out of town or I was travelling, we would ensure we would do this. Every single day. Come rain or storm, the moon saw us both looking up together and smiled down on us. Does all this make some sense to you or does it sound weird?” he asked her.

“Because the thing is, I don’t have all the answers. You have to find them yourself. I can only show you what I thought was love, what I did when I was in love, what it meant to be in love for me. If that makes even a bit of sense to you, that can be a good start to your search for answers.” He smiled wearily. He had wanted to give her a more definitive answer, something that would make her happier and not leave her more confused than she was before. But he wanted her to walk that path alone and find her own answers—he would not be, could not be, there for her forever.

She looked at him with eyes slowly welling up with tears. She didn’t know who to blame, for putting her in this situation. He should not have left her like this, all alone and weary, having to wrestle with life without his help. She needed him to be in her life, looking over her, holding her hand, a shoulder to cry on whenever she felt like it. The version of her Papa that she had now made her long for him even more.

He continued, “I’ll tell you another story. More like a scenario. Suppose, 30 years down the line, you’re sitting in your drawing room. Your partner is in the kitchen washing the dishes. You can hear him, humming a tune and moving around the kitchen. The phone rings and it’s your daughter. She sounds excited and wants to tell you some news. You sense the happiness in her voice and ask her about it. She tells you she is pregnant; she had been trying for quite a while. You’re ecstatic; you’re more happy for her than anything else. You want to share this immediately with your partner. He had been more worried about it than you had been. You call out to him and ask him to come over as fast as he can. He comes outside the kitchen, running, a mix of anxiety and excitement written huge on his face. Hit the pause button here now. Whose face do you see? Is it his? Who do you want to be your children’s Papa? If it is him, you have your answer.”

She put the mug down. As always, her Papa had cleared up things for her. She wished she could hold him close in her arms and tell him how much she missed him. But she had realized much before that that was not how the world worked. She looked away from the sofa where her Papa was sitting. She saw her mother was looking at her intently from the kitchen door. She didn’t want to answer any questions now; she wanted to be alone, alone with her thoughts and the newfound clarity she had got.

“Oh, my child, you're talking to him again, aren't you?” she heard her mother asking. She didn’t reply; Papa and these conversations were something that she didn’t want to share with anyone, even with her mother. She smiled weakly at her, took her mug, and walked away; struggling to control the tears that threatened to fall down any moment.