A letter to my father

Hi Appa,

It’s a strange feeling. My stomach twists, and my fists clench at the thought of writing a letter to you. I know you were always a good listener, and maybe—just maybe—you would understand my words. (At least, that’s what I’d like to believe.) But this might be the first, or perhaps the last, formal conversation we ever have. 

You might wonder why now?, that too in a letter!. But my dear dad, you know I am your drama queen and I feel obligated to share them with you.

I hope you’re doing well, Appa. And I know Amma is doing her best to keep you happy too. I want to ask, How is Amma? But then again, her only happiness has always been making you happy.

Here, everyone is fine. Anu (your granddaughter, in case you forgot) keeps asking about you all the time. I have to make up little lies now and then to keep her quiet. Not that I hate lying—these days, I lie a lot. Not just to her, but to myself too. I don’t even know what’s truth and what’s a lie anymore.

You always said lies keep winding up like a tangled thread, and only the truth can unwind them. I took that to heart my whole life. But now, I’m not sure if it matters anymore.

Raghu, your prized treasure—the witness to your search for the perfect son-in-law. He’s doing well too. Why wouldn’t he be? The house you gave him as dowry keeps him safe, and the car you bought him gets his job done.

I often wonder what goes on in the minds of freeloaders like him. It’s kind of funny—I’ve only been inside that car twice. Even Anu isn’t allowed anywhere near it. It’s his prized possession. I’m just glad he doesn’t treat the house the same way. Otherwise, Appa, your daughter and granddaughter would be sleeping outside on the porch. That much, I can tell you.

Appa, do you remember the first time I met Raghu? I told you I didn’t want to get married, that you couldn’t force me to marry some random stranger. Your face darkened, your eyes turned red, and your mustache twitched with rage. You raised your hand, and I ducked in fear—but you weren’t coming for me. You went after Amma.

You hit her twice, Appa. She fell to the ground, crying in pain. I still remember her eyes, filled with tears and guilt. She couldn’t look me in the eye for the rest of the day. She was too ashamed to even speak to me.

By now, you must think that I’m just blaming you and ranting for the rest of this letter. But this isn’t a rant—it’s my chance to give you a brief recap of my life.

Honestly, despite dreading the day, I was a little excited and happy about the marriage. When I first met Raghu, he was handsome—tall, with a chiseled face, well-groomed, and a light stubble. For a moment, I thought you were right all along. You knew what I wanted, and that six-figure salary was just the icing on the cake. I won’t say I wasn’t impressed.

But it took no more than three weeks to realize that marriage wasn’t what I had imagined. My husband’s handsome features and six-figure salary couldn’t make up for the absence of love.

Every day, I lived in a dreamy world, my feet never allowed to touch the ground. I was dear to Raghu—the countless hours spent on the phone while he was at work, the never-ending conversations even when he was home. He often asked me what I wanted to do in the future, and I always told him I wanted to start my own bakery. I would go on and on about my love for baking, and he would listen, his beautiful dark eyes fixed on mine.

But my first real task as a wife was far from what I had imagined. It was a Monday morning. I was already late for work, my legs moving frantically between the wardrobe and the dressing table. Raghu, as always, took his own time, ambling from the bathroom back to bed. He plopped down lazily and called out, “Kavi.”

“Can you clean the toilet?”

A strange shiver ran down my spine. A lump formed in my throat, blocking any words from escaping. I turned to him, my eyes welling up. “Me?” I managed to whisper.

“Yes,” he said.

My eyes darted between him and the ticking dial on my watch. I was already late. I decided to clean. 

Appa, I know its my duty to keep my home clean. But its been three years now, I am still cleaning and while he ploped on his stupid beanbag. Am I the only one who is shitting in that toilet. Every morning I enter the toilet, the stench of previous night unflushed beer pee will drift into my nose and my tongue will gag out.

To be continued…