Dear Piya,
As the time-gaps keep getting longer & longer between my letters to you, I feel like I am falling short of excuses.
But please accept this one, today.
I started writing yo you, at a time when our conversations were more of a monologue : A young mother going through post-partum blues talking to her infant little girl, hoping that the gibbersih agooos in return from a babbling mouth were actual pieces of sentences she wanted to hear from her little best-friend-for-life.
Today, when you are not that little anymore (you haven't been so since your gibberish turned into a perenially ongoing channel of kiddo-radio), talking to you actually feels like a real conversation.
Yes, the advices are more self-appropriating, from your side, like 'Just let me watch my cartoon and I'll get out of your hair!'.
That is, both, helpful and not helpful, at the same time. But I happen to roll with it from time to time.
What I am trying say is this - It feels like you need less & less of my letters with each passing day.
And while that feeling is both, good & not so good, at the same time, I am actually sitting on life's incoming philosophical lesson - that like my letters, you will grow towards needing me less & less as well, in the years to come.
That is the reason I wish I spend more time talking to you directly, than writing to you.
But as is the case with life, there is always a curveball around the corner.
This last year has been cruel to mothers like myself.
I have been home-bound.
Working for home.
Working from home.
And raising a more-curios-than-a-cat kind of 3-year-old, amidst all.
I was of a strong belief that I had a lot to complain about, given how this pandemic has shaken up lives.
But, today, it came to my notice that when it comes to troubles, there is no comparison of pain - It is, really, to each, their own.
It must have happened for the Nth time, but sadly, I noticed it only for the first time.
While juggling making the meals of the day, working for the home, working for office, working on my storytelling venture, assisting with your online educations & the activities thereafter and doing a dozen other chores alongside, I had my brain in the mode it has been all year long - Frozen, and in a zone.
That is to say that my responses have become robotic.
Seldom does something go deeper than the first layer of my skin. It is a very effective defense mechanism that popped up as the normal-life-as-we-knew-it started falling apart, much thanks to the pandemic of Covid-19.
As I worked in my 'zone' yet again this morning, you came up to me & said 'Mumma, please, mere saath khelo na...'
'Coming, baccha' was my first reply.
A few minutes later, you came back with the exact same request : 'Mumma, please, mere saath khelo na...'
'Piya, Mumma is busy, baccha', I said this time.
Some few minutes later again, you came repeating 'Mumma, please, mere saath khelo na...'
'Please baccha, learn to play on your ow...' I stopped as I mechanically spoke this sentence which I just realised had become so ingrained in my brain that it came out of my mouth without me having to even make eye-contact with my child, as my hands kept working on the tasks of the day.
I stopped mid-sentence and looked at this girl whose head barely reached the edge of my waist.
With a soft-toy hugging your chest, your dewy eyes looked at me with hope & plea in them, as you pulled the end of my top.
You just wanted somebody to come play with you.
With your father addressing his office-duties and your mother bound to home-related-chores, your soft toys had done a fine job of becoming your imaginary friends so far.
But there is only so much comfort that a monologue can provide. The minute a two-way-conversation starts, even the dearest of letters can take a back seat!
I would know that better than anybody else, right?
You talk, alright.
But today, the pout on your lips and the request in your eyes told me what your words couldn't.
While a lot has been lost by the adults in the world, the loss suffered by the little ones has been a great one too.
You, my child, have lost out on your childhood :
The glee of meeting with your-age silly-willies.
The routine of going to a school.
The excitement of eating lunch with your classmates from your tiffin-boxes.
The zest of spending the evenings in the common garden.
The connection with elements like mud, rocks, leaves & water - all in the company of somebody who isn't pedantic about cleanliness (like your parents) but actually enjoys making a mess like you do.
The hug of childhood called 'Play'...
I am sorry, my darling.
I am sorry for this has been a rough year for you.
There must be a world-full of emotions brimming inside of you that I am not aware of, because as a little child there is only so much you can express.
I wish I could wave a wand and make it all go away, somehow. Wouldn't that be something?
I would like to believe, though, that, there are things beyond the understanding of all of us that make the moons go round & round the planets.
May those energies be touched by these wailing hearts of little children like you, to help the world heal fast.
For now, I will try my best to be your pal.
Come, lets play.
Love,
Maa.
