The Momma Clan

I shuffled in the locals to reach my workplace, which buzzed with people; the cacophony never distracted me. I sat in my chamber reading the files, working, eating my lunch, and leaving the desk after work hours. My desk was always immaculately arranged. The files were in order, and the pen stand had colored pens, pencils, erasers, a sharpener, and a ruler.

Mundaneness enchanted me, and I basked in its captivating glory, living an ordinary life with my daughter and wife.

I slogged to fulfill my mediocre dreams: a home, the education of my daughter, her marriage, a secure life after my retirement, savings to meet unprecedented health expenses, trips to visit various places within India and normalcy. We maintained an adequate lifestyle in the suburbs of bustling Kolkata; the city lapped my ambition, and I owed every bit to the beautiful, vibrant city.

My daughter, Veda, the apple of my eye, started going to a reputed school well-known in the vicinity for a record of academic excellence over the years. As a proud parent, I attended the orientation program and secretly wished my daughter would achieve laurels one day. Her sparkling eyes had a nascent ambition, sprouting like tender leaves. And I desired to nurture her dreams and give her wings to fly high in the sky.

Her academic performance reflected her unwavering determination to touch the pinnacle of success. She made us proud every day!

As a child, Veda would always play with a toy stethoscope, wrap bundles of cotton clothes, give spoonfuls of water as medicines, and smile while treating me as her patient. It was a game my wife and I played with her; we took turns coughing, sneezing, and whimpering playfully. She would treat us with much patience and kindness.

I always knew she wanted to be a doctor. Veda topped her school exams and prepared for further studies. We aided her with every possible support, financially and physically. I made ends meet by working towards a goal aligned with my daughter’s dreams. She was our only child: the axis around whom our world revolved. And finally, she cracked the exam, the toughest that unleased her aspirations to serve people.

We celebrated the day our happiness knew no bounds. She strived hard to pursue a career and continued to work relentlessly.

“Baba, a doctor’s life is never easy,” Veda quipped often. She would stay away from home during the nights to attend to patients, administer medicines, and care for them in the wee hours. We would stay awake sometimes, worrying about her safety, but her calm voice eased our thumping hearts, and her face glistened in resilience and dedication. The one that made us nothing but proud.

The Covid days were horrible, and she had to spend days working hard as a trainee (second-year- post-graduate) in the R. K Hospital, treating patients with complications under the vigilance of senior/experienced doctors. Her devotion touched the patients’ hearts, and they continued to stay in touch with her after recovering. Veda’s perseverance and love for her work gave her accolades, blessings, and good wishes. She wallowed in their charm and strived harder, much harder.

Until it all broke into fragments like a broken string of precious pearls, those rounded balls thumped on the bare ground, making the loudest noise our ears failed to hear, and our voices fizzled to utter, our hearts overwhelmed with grief, wrenched every moment. However, loud, we tried to scream, banging our legs in disbelief. We failed. That one phone call changed our lives forever.

My vision blurred as I walked the aisle of the hospital. My legs numbed, the crowd made way, and the bustling noise made no sense: the world does not make any sense to a father who lost his daughter to a horrific gang rape and murder. My world ended there, and then when I saw her torn, lifeless body. Her pain simmering in my orbs, her screeches echoing in the hallway, her dignity burned to ashes, and her life coming to a stagnant, still. The loudest silence engulfs my core, throttling my existence; the questions haunt me, grappling my breath. WHY? OH! WHY?
There is a surge and uproar that the nation abides, standing united with HER, with us, lighting candles, holding strikes, and calling the names of those perpetrators. The world talks now. The incoherence seeps into me, and I fail to comprehend those words. The blabber, I do not want to understand.

For a father who lost his daughter to horror, it makes no sense. The question haunts me, grappling my breath. Will my daughter come back to me? Normalcy sucks, I say! The ordinary life I wished for and cultivated has given me a nightmare. This vibrant city that once had taught me to dream has become a noose around my neck. My life has turned into a holocaust whose rims burn with remorse and unutterable pain; my dreams succumbed to the raging anger burning in me. The world does not make any sense to me; the fake assurances do not make any sense to me, but I will cherish the courage of my dead daughter, who fought for righteousness until her last breath. My feeble legs waver, but I will stand proudly for her. Veda, you make us proud! Today and every day.

-Nibedita