Dear Daughter

Weird are the ways memories work. The last time I was here was somewhere in the summer of 2014. My head was filled with anticipation; my heart - that's a whole different story. I looked at my watch. It was around 5 a.m. The bus had arrived much before its actual arrival time.

Bus journeys were always filled with stories to tell. In the seat next to me, on the other side of the aisle, sat a woman who was more anxious to reach than I was. I could tell that like me, she too had something to look forward to and something else to dread. 

For the next five minutes, I contemplated whether to call my brother to pick me up from the station or not. I finally figured it was best not to disturb him at that time. I had a feeling he lacked sleep anyways and me, adding to it, didn't seem like a viable option. When the bus finally arrived, the conductor yelled. I got off the bus after picking up my luggage. The rickshaw drivers were already making their way towards me, asking me where I was headed. The bus stop was weirdly noisy despite looking so deserted against the backdrop of the dawn breaking.

I finally decided to get into the first rickshaw in the stand. The rickshaw drivers made very serious business-deals at this time of the hour. I was determined as well, to save as much as possible. The only problem was- I was never good at bargaining. So I pretended to make a bit of fuss and did a dramatic walk-away, much to my own embarrassment until the driver too figured that this was just a waste of time. We finally agreed on a price that was just about 20 bucks lesser than what he first quoted.

Mornings were always beautiful here. As we made our way out of the bus station, I saw that the small tea stall at the corner of the road was still crowded. It was the most famous one out here, that served heavenly chai that just instantly made our mornings ten times better. People were gorging on the fresh idlis served there.

I remembered how dad and I used to make our stop everyday here. My house was a good 10 minutes away from this place. On Sundays mornings, this was our mandatory hangout. Mom would still be sleeping, and brother would make a good excuse every week; so, father and I would start jogging from home and mid-way just switch to walking. And this was our pit stop. Or rather, our final stop before we turned around to go back. We take the abundance so many of these moments for granted until one day, all these moments are just another part of memories we secretly we could relive.

It still takes me by surprise how time changes so many things. Even memories. As we inched closer home, I realized that in the past three years, I've thought so much of everything around here. The little grocery store before the right turn home, the green fields that stretched at the corner of the road, the large mango trees that had outlived some people I had known- I had thought of everything so much that I'd somehow managed to alter the images I had of them. Now that I finally saw them, everything still seemed unreal.

I was still savoring every bit outside, when the rickshaw driver interrupted. I told him to stop at the first house on the left. I trembled as I said it. It had been a while since I'd been here. I didn't know if I was ready just yet.