The Search

6. Prutha

From the memories and writings of Prutha Henderson...

Prutha; I always wondered why they gave me this name. It wasn't common or anything, after all. In fact, I think I was the only one with that name in the entire United States of America and not just Connecticut. My mother had once told me that she had wanted to name me Sarah but it was James' suggestion to name me Prutha instead. Figures since the name had Sanskrit origins and James was crazy about everything Indian. Apparently, my dad had liked his best friend's suggestion and I had ended up with a name like Prutha Sarah Henderson.  

Prutha; it meant the daughter of Earth. As a five year old I hated my name. Why should I be the daughter of Earth? I was my mommy and daddy's little daughter, wasn't I? My father used to smile and pick me up whenever I said that. Once, he even took me for a walk into the gardens. It was one of the clearest memories I had of my father from when I was a kid. 

"Do you see those flowers?" He had pointed out at the rose bushes I loved so much. 

"Yes, I love them. They are so pretty" I had said. 

"They are the daughters of the Earth too... we all are the children of the Earth. We live on the Earth and return into her caress after we pass, don't we? Honey, one day your mother and I might not be there here physically to take care of you. One day, we'd be dead but we will always look after you from under there. You will always feel our essence in the Earth" my father had told me. 

I did not understand death or whatever my father had said then and I remembered thinking that my father looked very sad. But he had told me that he would always look after me from inside of the earth even after he was no longer there, so I was content and satisfied. 

My father passed away just a week after that particular day. 

None of us had expected it. I did not even understand it when it happened and I was right there in his study room with him. I had been playing with my tea set and he had been sitting there looking at something on his desk. I had asked him if he wanted me to make him some tea and he had nodded with a smile. I was about to turn to my toy utensils when something had fallen out of his hands on the floor; a coin of some sorts. Being the hyper active child that I was, I had jumped to pick it up. 

The next thing I knew, my father was clutching his hand over his chest and gasping. He was shaking and looked in pain. I had screamed for my mother, who came rushing in and tried to help my father. She had instantly sent me to call 911 and ask them to send help. 

By the time the help had arrived, my father was gone. 

I couldn't understand death then, but it made me cry slowly into my pillows when my mother told me that my hero, my daddy was never coming back. All this time, I held on to the last thing that has slipped out of his hand, the coin that I had picked up.

I placed the coin down in my drawer, on top of my diary and got up. I had cried enough for the day. It was funny how we ended up crying for everything that hurt when we start it over one thing. I hadn't been planning on thinking about my father's death. Nor had I planned on thinking about the origins of my name. I was grieving for an entirely different reason when it had started. 

Not wanting to get back to crying after thinking about that reason once more, I continued rubbing my face to dry the tears and went towards the bathroom. Once I was inside, I splashed water on my face again and again, until all the evidence of tears was gone. 

It felt a lot better when I dried my face. After duping the towel in the laundry basket, I returned back to my room and put the picture frames that were covering my bed back onto the bedside table and the shelves.