Father and Daughter

Daddy's Little Girl

I could hear my dad grinding his teeth. Getting ready to shout at me for something I did not do. I pretend to ignore it. My dad had started to self-destruct a little while after my mother's death. I never understood why. It was not as if he had loved her, or respected her. They had gotten married as a business deal, like most marriages in India, a convenience, an unavoidable contract that had to be signed before a certain age had lapsed. But there my dad had been at the funeral; miserable, drunk and angry. So he had been for the days that followed. I was angry at the prospect of having to take care of this person who never saw love, who never felt love, but grieved at the loss of someone else's love. My mother had loved him; that had been her weakness.

I remember the slaps that followed every time he ground his teeth. My mother had taken it, and stayed with him. Domestic abuse was not a term that was well echoed in society. Mental abuse was a myth. Nobody understood it. Women got what they deserved, if they misbehaved. My dad got away with it every day. Do not misunderstand me, I love my father. He used to be an amazing person, someone I looked up to, and someone I dreamt of being, but it all changed when my mother died. I think I had been as blind as the society had been when it came to abuse. But after my mother's death, he had become a monster I did not recognise.

I look up at my dad from my laptop; excel sheets driving me crazy. I can see him angry, "Why are you always staring at that computer screen? You are at home. Can't you do something else?" I ignore my dad and continue to work; this had to have been sent out yesterday.

I took care of my father, my husband and I took him home after my mother's death and cared for him dearly. But, somehow, it wasn't enough. I did not have the time for him, as my mother had done. I worked two jobs, and had a baby on the way. He would start to mumble and make comments "just like her mother." Sometimes he would raise his hand to slap me, but drop it, maybe out of realisation. I did not understand this man, I loved him, but I did not understand him.

I used to think it was his upbringing, the patriarchal society having forced his mind and molded it as a child to believe women had no rights. But having seen his daughter grow to 32, he should have grown up now, seen the world changing. "Ignoring me, just like her mother." He mumbled. I just could not take it anymore, "Enough," I shouted. "Enough. I am proud to be my mother."

 Dad

I started to grind my teeth, impatience. I was getting ready to shout at my daughter for something she did not do. She pretends to ignore it. I had started to self-destruct, a little while after her mother's death. I can never explain why.  I had never loved her enough, or respected her enough during her life. We had gotten married as a business deal, like most marriages in India, a convenience, an unavoidable contract that had to be signed before a certain age had lapsed. But there I had been at the funeral; miserable, drunk and guilty. So had I been for the days that followed. I was angry at the prospect of having lived as this person who never saw love, who never felt love, but grieved at the loss of someone else's love. Her mother had loved me; that had been my strength.

I remember the slaps that followed every time I ground my teeth. Her mother had taken it, and stayed with me. Domestic abuse was not a term that was well echoed in society. Mental abuse was a myth. People would not go against what I said or did to my wife, out of anger or disrespect. I got away with it every day and I feel guilty every day. When I see my daughter, I am reminded of her mother every day. I fear that she has looked up to me that much, worked too hard to become like me, and I fear that the essence of her mother has dissipated from her. She was turning into the monster, I recognize in the mirror every day.

She looks up at me from her laptop, stopping mid-way through typing. I can see her strained; I can't have her be this way at home, the way I had always been "Why are you always staring at that computer screen? You are at home. Can't you do something else?" She ignores me and continues to work. I feel less of her mother in her, no smile like her mother used to have.

She took care of me; her husband and she took me home after her mother's death and cared for me dearly. Somehow, it was not enough. I did not feel the warmth that used to flow from her; she seemed to be the way I had always been: cold, calculating, distant. She worked two jobs, and had a baby on the way. I would often try to muster courage and try to tell her, but in barely more than a mumble, “you should be just like her mother." Sometimes I would raise my hand to pat her head, but drop it, out of realisation that she is too much like me. I did not understand this girl, I loved her, but I did not understand her.

I used to think I had brought her up right, that her mother had taught her tenderness while I taught her to be ruthless in this patriarchal society. But having seen my daughter grow to 32, I felt ashamed that she was more like me than her mother. But she had those traits, "Ignoring me, just like her mother," I chuckled. She looked at me angry blotches on her face “Enough," she shouted. "Enough. I am proud to be my mother." Couldn't she tell? That is all I want from her.