“Her face looks like burnt bread!”

The words echoed in my mind as the bus continued to steer against the mild traffic at the crossing. I was seated in the second last row, near the window to the right. As surprising as it was to get a window seat on a bus anywhere in Liberty Hills, it was more surprising to reckon the excessive prejudice that this place had for people of my colour. I had come to realize it very harshly in the past week. Hence, the window seat was not out of luck, but a consequence- of being black, migrating here after Granny died, and most importantly, a consequence of my inability to speak.

My name is Margo Smith and I am twelve years old. I am vocally mute and live in Liberty Hills, Texas. Mother passed away soon after I was born, thus leaving Father as the only one I could call family. He is good at fulfilling his responsibilities- he put me into a ‘good’ school and gave me five dollars every day for the bus tickets.

But that is all he does; those five dollars that he gives me every morning are the only thirty seconds worth of interaction I have with him in a day. He comes home late and Nancy, my caretaker, says that a good girl like me should sleep on time. So, she cooks and cleans and puts me to sleep before Father comes home.

Today marked a week since I started attending school here. I don’t like it much here, except for one thing. Something about this place made the sunrise look more glorious than it was. The rising sun gave life and colour to everything it touched- the flowers, the trees, and the sprawling green farms with sheep and shepherds. That singular moment looked straight out of a painting. It was during this time, that for a fleeting moment, I forgot everything and just revelled in the splendour of the rising sun, slightly elated that only I was a true witness to its glory, because the other people on this bus overlooked it every day, busy on their phones and crosswords in the newspapers.

However, within a day or two I noticed that I wasn’t the sole witness to it.

It was a bright Thursday when I first saw him- the ticket collector on the bus.

He was a medium-height man and looked around Father’s age. He’d also marvel at the rising sun every morning, solemnly closing his haggard eyes for a brief moment.

After mumbling a short prayer, he would put on a happy face and begin his duty of walking the aisles and issuing tickets.

When he approached my seat that day, I handed him the change and scrawled on my ‘Hello Kitty’ notebook, 'Oakwood School—one ticket, please.' He looked at me intently for a moment, as if still processing the obvious conclusion that I couldn’t speak. I hung my head and simply waited for him to hand over the ticket. However, what he did surprised me greatly. He handed the change back to me and, from his shirt pocket, retrieved a fruit candy. Smiling earnestly, he gave me the candy and put his hand on my head, asking, “What is your name, child?”

“Margo”- I scribbled, hurriedly. I often had difficulty maintaining any significant conversation with people because it took me longer to write the answer than it took for them to ask the question. Due to the inhibition among people to learn sign language, this was the only way I could communicate. The conversations often died with the others losing patience over the inconsistency between my slow writing and their rapid questions.

“I won’t ask you too many questions, don’t worry,” he smiled. “My name is Darren. Everybody here, calls me Dada. I work the morning shift on this bus, Margo. And as long I work here, I will never charge you.”

My countenance to such a statement clearly reflected my incredulity. Questions swarmed my head like moths around a light bulb.

Who was this man? Why was he obliging me with such an offer? Does he even have a good intention?

Nancy always said that a person’s eyes were windows to their soul. And when I looked at him, they shimmered with an emotion that I couldn’t place- it was as if happiness and sorrow struggled for a dignified existence on his face. The internal tussle became prominent when I saw his eyes brimming with unshed tears.

After smiling at me again, he proceeded to issue the other tickets.

That day, in school, selections for the annual dance performance were held.

There is one thing to know about me- I love dancing. Nancy said that when I was growing up, I used to dance to any tune.

Dancing is cathartic for me. On certain nights, when I did not want to sleep but Nancy still put me to bed, I would turn on the music and dance silently, lost but happy.

I was selected as a part of the troupe that would perform in a few weeks. Some girls probably did not like my selection. They grimaced and rolled their eyes contemptuously over the thought that they’d have to rehearse with me. I was mute, yes, but I could hear the gossip.

“…But how can she be a part of us- she doesn’t even know how to speak…”

“…And she is so… black. Her face looks like burnt bread…”

The worst part about being mute is that even your cries have no voice. Even when you want to scream and wail in agony, you know that the warm tears are your only companion. That’s when you know that even your tears have failed you, just like your larynx.

I wanted to tell Father about it, but thirty seconds were too less to convey the grief. I told it to Nancy though. She had learned and taught me the sign language. Conversations with her were fast and easy. She told me that there was no reason to pay heed to them and that I should celebrate the fact that I would get to dance. I wanted to tell her about Dada but chose not to.

Today, just like every other day, Dada came to me, greeted me, and handed me the candy. He would come to my seat only after attending to all the passengers and stay till my stop arrived. The warmth in his smile and countenance conveyed how earnest and gentle he was. Over the days, he had asked me generic questions like where I came from, who was in my family, and how school was. I answered every question honestly.

“So, Margo,” he asked. “How are the rehearsals coming through?”

He waited patiently on the other seat while I scrawled in my notebook. Then, I handed it back to him.

“It is going on well. Mrs. Spencer, my teacher, announced the date of the performance yesterday. It is going to be held on Sunday, two weeks later.”

He smiled as he read. I knew I had made a mess with the handwriting and the pencil smudges, but his smile eliminated the doubts.

He asked a few more questions regarding the costumes and the shoes which I answered.

“I am sorry, but can I ask one more thing, please?” he said.

I nodded.

“Will your father and your caretaker be coming to watch the performance?”

I stared blankly at him, unable to understand how to respond. I was yet to ask Father about it. I had thought of mentioning it when he was handing the five dollars to me this morning but failed to do so.

He waited for my reply but upon seeing me struggle to give one, he put his hand firmly on my shoulder and said, “Do not worry, my child. Don’t look so tense.”

After the rehearsals, I took the bus back home. Since Dada wasn’t on duty during the afternoon shifts, I spent most of my time looking outside the window, trying to sketch the fields and the sheep basking in the evening hues.

A long tunnel came along the way. I hated it because it was dark and I feared darkness. Dada said that I should be more scared of the darkness inside a person than outside because there was always light at the end of the tunnel. I never understood what he meant and why he dismissed my fear so easily. But I never asked.

I would always eat the candy he gave me every morning when the tunnel began and keep my eyes closed, opening it only when I could feel the lights. I would, then, keep the wrappers neatly in my bag. There were seven of them now.

That night, I asked Nancy if she’d come to watch the final performance. I said that I’d be really happy if she and Father came to watch it.

“Margo,” she gesticulated. “I am going to visit my mother next week. She’s very sick.”

I frowned. “How long would you be gone?”

“At least three weeks.”

I turned silent.Nancy won’t be there.

“But do not worry. I will ask Master. He would certainly be very delighted.”

I smiled half-heartedly. Subconsciously, I knew that he would most certainly not be delighted in the way Nancy was trying to convince me of. She put me to bed and asked me to sleep.

As soon as turned to leave the room, I jumped and gestured to her to hand me a box if she had one to lend. She looked utterly confused but brought it for me nonetheless. After she left, I took all the candy wrappers Dada gave me and put them in. I quickly scribbled a note-

Given by the one who sees light in my eyes and joy in my presence. The one whom I wish to see every morning; who is like a father that Father couldn’t become.

My Dada

I placed it carefully and put the box in my bag. I said a little prayer; it was the only time I did not feel my muteness because every person prayed in muteness. The words of the soul and the whispers of the heart reached God. And so, I prayed for Mother, for Father, for Nancy’s mother and Nancy, for myself, and most importantly, for Dada, because of whom, I now wanted to wake up every day and take the bus.

The next morning, after giving me the change, Father turned to leave for his study. I quickly held him by the tail of his coat which made him turn.

“What do you want?” he asked, clearly annoyed by the waiting he’d have to do while I scribbled the answer in my notebook. I honestly wondered at times, why had Father never tried learning sign language as Nancy did.

Maybe, he’s too busy.

I handed him the notebook.

There is a dance performance on Sunday two weeks later at school. I am also performing. Will you be there, please Father?

Father scrutinized the note as if he couldn’t understand my writing. He looked at me and said, “No. I don’t have time for it. I have some work in the mills that day. Ask Nancy to pick you up.”

My eyes started to well by the immediate and curt rejection. I tried retrieving my notebook from him to tell him how much I wanted his presence there.

Since I joined the school, Father has never had an opportunity to be proud of me. Annual days, sports days, recitation meets- nobody wanted to encourage a mute, black kid at school. My failing grades and parent-teacher meetings were assigned to Nancy to look after and attend. This was practically the first time I was a part of something that I knew would make him feel, even if for a fleeting moment, that his daughter wasn’t good-for-nothing, that she wasn’t ‘disabled’.

I reached out again, but he refused to give the notebook to me. I frantically gestured and cried, hoping he’d understand. But he stood resolute, stern.

I held his coat and legs, begging every God up there to give me a voice to convey my pain at his rejection, to convey my heart’s desire to him and share how those thirty seconds of the day wouldn’t suffice to warm the heart of a child who has been rejected by her own parent in every aspect.

“Good Lord, Margo,” Father growled in anger. “For heaven’s sake, stop this nonsense! I said I don’t have time for this crap. What the heck is a dance performance? If you want to do anything in life and not end up wedded in a family like a stupid liability, then study! And oh, well, which boy would even marry you? Nobody wants a mute wife!”

He stormed into his study, swinging my notebook right across the hall.

For a good five minutes, I felt paralyzed, appalled by the reaction. I couldn’t move, couldn’t look anywhere else except for my notebook which lay thrown in the corner. I wished that somehow, I could stop breathing. Tears just rolled down my cheeks mutely. I felt betrayed by them, just like I always did.

After a while, I managed to pick up my notebook and went up the stairs, unable to feel my body from the crying and subsequent fatigue.

I did not go to school that day. And the next. And the next. Even though Nancy tried convincing me not to drop the rehearsals, Father’s words had pierced my heart and broken it into a million pieces.

I wondered about Dada. Would he have missed me? Or was I just another friendly face for him?

A week after the incident, Nancy received a call from Mrs. Spencer. She informed Nancy that if I did not attend the rehearsals for one more day, I’d be removed from the performing troupe. I was supposed to collect the costume in two days.

I gestured to Nancy that it did not bother me if they removed me. It would, instead, be good for everyone. Father would be happy; the girls would be happy.

“Margo,” Nancy held my hand and pulled me from bed. “Stop this, please. I understand Master had been very rude to you, but you can’t give up. If certain people find happiness in your sorrow, would you let them be happy by dwelling in the sadness or take action to vanquish their attempts?”

She explained to me a lot of things, but I did not find the courage to do something that Father disapproved of so sternly.

That evening, Father came home early and ordered Nancy to serve the hot cross buns he had bought. I wondered whether they were a symbol of apology. Father wasn’t loving to me, but he wasn’t abusive either. He was just a father who never found it important to be there for me. As I said, he was good at fulfilling his ‘responsibilities,’ for raising a mute girl as a single parent was a responsibility.

It wasn’t Mrs. Spencer, Nancy, or the hot cross buns that convinced me to pick up my bag and go to school the next day, I wanted to go because I knew this was the only thing in which I could excel; it was my only opportunity of ever feeling worthy and deserving enough for a stage. I spent exactly thirty seconds to collect change from Father and leave. The day was bright and when I boarded the bus, I saw Dada look at me with gleaming eyes. I sat in my habitual seat and looked out at the sun and the farms. But today, for the first time, they looked dull and lifeless, just like I did. So, I started to weep.

Dada quickly hurried to my side and put his comforting hand over my head. He tapped my shoulder and then he did something that left me stunned.

Using the gestures of sign language, he asked me why I had been missing school for the past week, about my dance performance, and if I was okay.

I stared at him with blank amusement. Instead of answering his questions, I asked him how he learned sign language.

“I saw how you always hurried your writing to answer the questions I asked. It limited the conversations we could have in our finite time together, Margo,” he gestured, benignly. “In the past week, I was worried about you. You just…disappeared.”

I hung my head in silence.

“So, I decided to work on sign language; to communicate better with you. I really love talking to you, child.”

I couldn’t help but think about the stark difference between Father and Dada.

I told him everything about the events at home and cried before him. A strange emotion crossed Dada’s face. A cocktail of sorrow, grief, and maybe guilt? It seemed like some old memory had been stirred.

I nudged his arm to pull him out of his reverie. Wiping off the tears that welled up in his eyes, he looked at me with empathy- as if by some divine intervention, he knew exactly what I must’ve gone through.

Before I could ask him anything, my stop arrived. He quickly gestured towards me saying that I shouldn’t give up and continue to do what I was doing with conviction. Who knew? Someone might appreciate it. Saying so, he swung a candy into my hand and smiled before the bus left.

Nancy also said that hard work done towards any cause never went unappreciated. With that resolve, I practiced resolutely. Each day, I discussed my day, talked about Nancy, the beautiful sunrise, and any random topic I could think of. With Nancy away, he was the only person I talked to. He listened with such engaging patience and interest that I felt loved and accepted for the first time in my life.

The evening ride back home was spent sketching. I had almost completed it.Maybe, I’ll show it to Dada soon.

I finished my candies and placed the wrapper neatly in the box each day.

When I received the costume, I sneaked it into my bag to show it to Dada the next day. It was a shimmery pink frock with pretty-looking white beads.

“This will make you look like that Disney princess, what is her name…” Dada struggled.

“Cinderella.”

Dada nodded. “Exactly, like her.”

I shook my head. I scribbled a NO on the notebook.

“Why so?”

“The girls in school say they are Cinderella. I am like the evil stepmother,” I gestured. “They say I am black and Cinderella isn’t black. I am not pretty.”

Dada held my hands and looked into my eyes.

“You are the prettiest girl in the world. Never let anyone make you believe otherwise. Do you understand, Margo?”

I nodded with a huge smile.

I am pretty.

This was the first time someone had said it.

“I don’t know how to look Cinderella,” I gestured. “I don’t know how to make my hair like that.”

Dada retrieved a comb from his back pocket and asked me to sit still so that he could make it for me. I joyfully clapped my hands.

When I looked at myself in the mirror of his phone after he was done, I couldn’t believe I could have ever looked so pretty with just a simple change of hairstyle. Not even Nancy had dressed me up so well.

I wrote Thank You on a paper and gave it to him. He accepted it with a huge grin. The next thing I said, however, would change that grin to the emotion I saw crossing on his face the other day.

I wish I hadn’t said that.

“How do you know to comb so well? Do you also comb your daughter’s hair?”

A silence descended. His shoulders slumped and he suddenly looked very old.

I bent forward and held his hand and when he looked up, the glimmer and joy in his eyes were replaced by despondence, as if a thousand knives had stabbed him all at once. And for the first time, I saw Dada cry.

Tears. Proper tears.

He did not say a word, only wept bitterly. He got up from his seat and stood near the gate to contain the breakdown which had been noticed by the other passengers too. When I deboarded, he handed me a candy in silence before the bus left. Little did I know that I would not see him for the next three days, which was exactly the number of days before the performance.

On the night of the performance, I got dressed on my own and tied my hair the same way Dada had the last time I saw him. I really missed him. I saw Father in the study, sitting alone and attending files. Without a word, I decided to leave. That night, the school had arranged a special bus to pick up all the students who were performing. And since parents were supposed to attend the event, it followed that they would take their kids back home. I knew Father wasn’t going to come and even though there was no decided arrangement for my way back home after the performance, I still decided to go.

Skits, recitations, songs- every event kept happening in succession. But my eyes only searched for at least one familiar face in the crowd. One person among the hundreds who would’ve come just for me- nobody else. Even though I knew it was stupid, I hoped Father would have a sudden change of heart and come over to see me. Or, maybe Nancy’s mother would’ve gotten better and she would be here in time. The little things the mind does to comfort the aching heart are indeed very counterintuitive to the way it is supposed to function.

As my performance drew nearer, I closed my eyes and gathered myself. I had to give my best; hard work never went unappreciated.

When the curtains opened before us, and we took our positions on the stage, my eyes frantically searched the faces which were visible much better now.

The music began to play and we started to dance. However, my heart sank more and more with every row my eyes scanned.

There was no one for me- I was alone.

Parents cheered and took pictures of their kids, but there was no one for me.

And just when all hopes were lost and my eyes had started to prick from the tears, I saw him.

Dada.

He was sitting in the last row and cheering loudly for me.

I smiled heartily and wanted to cry. I wanted to scream Dada’s name and tell him how much I loved him.

I danced the rest of the duration with my entire heart to make him proud of me. He was there for me- my Dada.

After the performance, I ran towards him and hugged him tightly. I wanted him to feel what my words could never convey.

For the first time, someone hadn’t treated me like a responsibility, but like a child to be cherished.

If God had given me the power of speech for that sole moment, I would’ve said Thank You and would’ve happily relinquished it forever.

Dada held my hand, kissed my forehead, and patted my back.

“I am proud of you, Margo.”

I smiled again. He gave me something to eat and then asked me to sit in his car so that he could drive me home.

Mrs. Spencer interrupted us at the exit and asked Dada about his relationship with me, which she needed to maintain her record of the dispersal data.

“She is my daughter,” Dada said resolutely. I couldn’t have been more proud.

I nodded vehemently and headed towards Dada’s car.

As he drove to my home, I couldn’t talk to him in signs. Hence, I took my notebook out and nudged him to talk to me.

Dada smiled warmly as he read the first thing I wrote.

Thank you, Dada. I missed you.

“You look very pretty, Margo. Better than Cinderella.”

I blushed at the compliment.

I asked him where he had disappeared and he said that he had been occupied with some work. Even though I didn’t find his answer convincing, I didn’t prod him further. I was too elated to think of anything serious.

“I always wanted to see my daughter in a pink princess frock,” he whispered. “I wish I could’ve.”

For a long minute, I stared at my notebook, unable to decide how to respond.

I simply wrote- Maybe you will, soon.

Dada nodded with a sad smile. The inflections of his muscles made me feel like he was holding back something from me. But I did not pay attention to it.

The rest of our journey was spent trying to catch up on the three days of conversation which mostly involved me.

As he pulled the car near my house, I wondered why he worked as a ticket collector when he was so well-spoken, educated, and had such a swanky car, but I felt it wasn’t a good note to end such a blissful night on.

I wrote on a sheet- Thank you for being the father I never had, Dada. I love you.

He read it for a long time and broke into tears. They weren’t just tears of joy; they were laced with a sense of guilt, pain, and mortification which were all overshadowed by the happiness I exuded that night. Quickly recovering, Dada gave me a warm hug and said that he loved me too.

I wanted to know if he loved me more than his daughter, but then, it was a very stupid thing to ask. Not everyone’s father was like mine- so that they would have to find paternal love from other people’s fathers.

I was about to exit the car when Dada held my hand and stopped me. He pulled an envelope from his blazer and gave it to me.

“Margo, I want you to give this letter to your father. You understand me?”

I gazed at him incredulously, utterly bewildered by the request.

“Please say you would, Margo. It is important.”

I nodded my head reluctantly, but if Dada said it was important, then it was.

He then placed a bunch of candies in my hand. There were too many of them- three score at least. Before I could gesture asking why so many, he said, “I want you to have these. This is the first thing I ever gave you, my dear Margo. Keep them.”

I kept them in my bag, deeply confused.

“I love you, Margo. Always stay happy. You’re an amazing child, my dear. It was an honour to be your Dada.”

I gestured an I love you to him and hugged him again, slightly in tears.

Bidding him goodbye, I went towards the house and rang the bell.

I was surprised to see Nancy answer the door. Before I could ask her anything about her mother and when she came back, I felt a sharp pull on my right hand that yanked me inside the house.

“Shut the doors, Nancy. And go upstairs.” Father growled.

Nancy shivered and did as she was asked to do, giving me a frightened look.

“You went for the performance?” he asked me.

I nodded, recovering the notebook so that I could respond to him.

Maybe, he wanted to ask how it went or apologize.

“How did you return?”

I stared at him obtusely, stunned by the question.

How did I return?

I began to scribble in my notebook.

“Did your Dada drop you home?” he asked, menacingly, before I could finish writing.

I felt my heart drop. Father knew about Dada. Nobody could’ve told him because I hadn’t told anybody. Which meant he had found the candy wrapper box.

I frantically gestured for him to wait while I responded to him. His temper rose with every second I took. Tears made it even more difficult to see what I had been writing. I could feel his wrath and fury.

“You’re saving money,” he said, rising from his seat, and approaching me. “I saw all the money in your bag with that box and note.”

I shook my head no. Begging for him to allow me to explain before he understood anything wrong.

“What have you been doing?” he said, in a low voice. “What have you been doing? Answer me, you ungrateful child!”

And there it was.

He hit me.

I knew he wouldn’t wait for me to answer anymore. Hence, before he could raise another hand, I handed him the letter.

He paused and asked, “Did your Dada give it to you?”

I nodded, shivering violently. I pointed to him, indicating that it was meant for him.

He crumpled the envelope in his fist and threw it away in disgust, his face contorting with an abhorrent despair that he made no attempt to conceal.

“I sent you to a normal school, instead of the one designated for mutes so that you could learn and grow up ‘normally.’ And this is what you’ve been doing? Sneaking money? Traveling with strange men in the dead of the night? Do you have any idea what kind of risk you’re putting yourself in? For the love of God, Margo! You are mute, you cannot speak! God forbid, if something was ever to happen to you, there’d be no way for anybody to figure it out.”

I kept shivering, unable to respond or make sense of anything he said.

“Come here,” he said, lifting me and seating me on a chair. “I don’t want to hurt you. I am your father. I don’t want anybody to take advantage of your disability and cause harm to you. There are strange men out there, who will be very nice to you but have the most despicable intentions.”

At that moment, I hated Father. I wanted him to disappear from my life forever. However, upon introspection, I realized that what he was trying to say wasn’t with a bad intention. He wanted to protect me, save me, because it was his ‘responsibility.’ And Father was good at fulfilling responsibilities.

I was a disabled child for him, someone defective, less than perfect. And he felt he knew better than I could ever know of myself. And maybe he did know everything better- at least everything else other than understanding his daughter, trusting her, and giving her love and care.

And with great courage, I picked up a pencil and notepad from his desk and wrote-

I hate you, Father. I wanted your time and appreciation. Not 30 seconds, but like the other girls who spend time with their daddies. I wanted to make you proud, but you can never love me the way my Dada loves me.

I tore off the sheet and handed it to him, my eyes glaring with tears interspersed with hatred, pain, and deceit. Without saying a word, I disappeared into my room, locking it from inside. Nancy pounded on the door, asking to be let in, apologizing profusely.

But all I did, was stare at my bag with the candies Dada gave and think about how such a blissful night had turned into a living nightmare.

I screamed with my mouth wide open, tears rolling down, cursing every God up there- Why did He make me like this? Why am I seen as a disabled child by my father?

Why did he send me voiceless into this noisy world that can’t stop talking?

In between the Whys and Hows, I slept, after many days wishing not to wake up the next day, for the glory of the upcoming sunrise would never be glorious enough to cover for the gloom of this night.

I did wake up; my face smeared with the dried tears, my mouth, dry from the crying. I did not go to school that day. Whatever Nancy brought to feed me, I returned. I changed the pink frock I had been wearing; it was missing two beads on the neckline.

I always wanted to see my daughter in a pink princess frock.

My heart yearned for Dada. I thought about him a lot, but mostly, I wondered what was there in the letter that he wanted Father to read. It perplexed me deeply, but the thought of going to Father’s study again after the incident seemed preposterous to me.

Nancy had been serving my food upstairs which helped me avoid every contact with him.

Four days had passed before I faced him again. I was on my way up the stairs when I heard him call out my name.

I turned around, hesitating for a moment. Even though I subconsciously wanted to storm off to my room pretending not to have heard him, I knew it would be unwise. I simply didn’t have it in me what it took to defy Father.

So, I stared at the floor beneath me, maintaining distance.

“Margo,” he said. “Look at me, dear.”

I did, unaffected by the endearment.

“I want—” he paused. Clearing his throat, he began again. “I want to inform you that I have decided that we should move from this place.”

Upon receiving no response from my end, he continued. “This place has done good neither for me nor for you. I have decided that it would be better for all of us if we moved back.”

I nodded my head; not because I was happy to hear this, but because I knew that he had already decided upon it; he was merely conveying it to me instead of asking my opinion about the same. Besides, I knew it was futile to expect from him even a chance to share how I felt about things.

Father was good at fulfilling responsibilities, after all.

I knew he’d be incompetent to understand the gravity of what he was trying to separate me from. But he had already signed the warrant to my misery, and I, like always, had to obey. Just like I wasn’t asked before moving in here, I’d most certainly not be considered to have a say in moving out either.

I was voiceless, literally, and metaphorically.

Father looked disoriented by my quick and non-revolting acceptance; he shifted in his place and then, continued, “Nancy would help you pack your stuff. We have three more days.”

Up in my room, I lay in my bed with the box of wrappers while Nancy packed away all my stuff. It was over- the happy days, the joyful conversations, the glorious sunrise.

I wanted to meet Dada one last time and inform him about this. I knew he’d feel betrayed; he had called me his daughter and I was going away without even fighting for him.

I decided to see him tomorrow. One last time. For myself, for him, and for the love we had.

I left early the next morning. I sneaked out of the house, without informing anyone, hoping to be back before midday. While I waited for the bus, my heart thumped loudly. I was agitated by the spectrum of thoughts that clouded my head.

But before I could brood on them further, the bus arrived.

As soon as I got in, my eyes searched wildly for Dada.

But Dada wasn’t on the bus. A different collector was on duty. I wondered if Dada had gotten busy with the same work he had mentioned when I had asked him in the car why he hadn’t been on duty for three days.

Whatever it was, I had to meet Dada. I couldn’t leave town without letting him know.

The risk was immense because Dada not being on duty meant I had to find my way to his house, which would take more than mid-day. But the last vestige of rationality had been thrown out of the window when I had jumped out of the one from my bedroom this morning. I purchased the ticket to the final stop and waited, unaware of where I’d end up.

I would later learn that while I waited patiently for the bus to make it to its destination, Father had woken up early and barged into my room that morning. Finding it vacant, he had woken up Nancy, who was equally oblivious to my absence. The entire house had been searched to locate me while I was here, on the bus, headed to find my happiness.

When the bus made it to its final stop, the collector asked me to deboard. I had already scribbled what I had to say in my notebook, intending not to waste any further time. So, I handed it to him.

My name is Margo. I take this bus every day. I noticed that you’re new on duty as the ticket collector. The previous collector, Dada Darren, is my friend. Can you tell me where I might find him? I must meet him today. Please?

The collector nodded and said that he did not know much about Dada’s whereabouts. Suggesting that the employee register might have information about him, he recovered it from the compartment near the driver’s seat and handed it to me.

I quickly scanned it and found Dada’s name. The address seemed unfamiliar, so I pointed it out to the collector, gesturing for directions.

He smiled softly and said, “You’re in good luck; this place is not far from here. Two blocks from the second exit and the first right.”

I thanked him and deboarded the bus. Following his directions, I came across a huge house. It was a beautiful off-white painted house with pretty ivies hanging from its walls. A nameplate bearing the name of Darren Williamson hung outside. Beside it, were the iron gates- bolted. I rang several times but received no response. Hopelessly, I tried and tried until I saw it- a few yards away- the ominous board with two words written on it that would change everything about the silence I received from Dada’s house.

FOR SALE

A shiver ran down my spine. And questions swamped my head.

Had Dada moved to a different house? Or had he moved from the city? Why would he do so without informing me?

I took a deep breath to settle the rising perturbation and looked around. I scurried to the adjacent house and rang the bell.

An elderly woman with grey hair and hooded eyes opened the door, clearly annoyed upon having her sleep disturbed.

I took out my notebook and quickly scribbled if she knew where Dada was and why his house was on sale.

“That man? The one the ivy house belongs to?” she asked, in a Texan accent. I nodded.

“That man died two days ago. They buried him at the cemetery one block away. Poor man, though. No family. The milkman discovered him. He’d been dead a day before they discovered it. No one’s next of kin, so the house goes on sale.”

I stood transfixed, appalled. Unable to move, breathe, or even hear my heartbeat.

I wondered if this was how death felt like.

“Do you need anything else?” she asked, grimacing in vexation.

When I didn’t respond, she bolted the door before my face.

The notebook slid from my hand. The ability to process and exist had left my body.

… buried him at a cemetery one block away…

I do not know what possessed me at that moment, but almost involuntarily, my legs took me there, as if by some incredulous stretch of imagination, my heart was still trying to make me believe that what I heard, wasn’t true.

I had never seen death before- in any form. And for the first time in my life, I was grateful to Father for ensuring that, because when I saw it, I knew that my mind had done it- it had processed death.

The headstone stood clearly before me, shining under the afternoon sun.

The epitaph said- “In loving memory of a wonderful father and husband; who, at long last, is finally united in heaven, with them.”

And there it was. A cascade of emotions gripped my heart. And I broke down with nothing to hold on to. I fell to the ground, and wailed silently, pounding my fist on it. The pain was extraordinary; more than I could describe in words. It felt like my world had ended. I wept profusely, unable to understand why I was subjected to such misery, such grave misgivings. Dada had left me. Forever.

I love you, Margo. It was an honour to be your Dada.

His words, his smile, his hand full of blessings and love, every memory flooded my heart. The value of a moment is indeed, realised when it becomes a memory.

Suddenly, I felt a hand on my head. I turned around and saw Father slouching before me. Holding the crumpled letter that Dada wrote, I saw tears in his eyes for the first time. I was too shattered then to understand the pain in those eyes of his, because, all I did was crawl into his arms and weep my heart out, mutely. He held me tightly and apologized, shedding quiet tears.

It was a long time before I could get a hold of myself. When I did, I looked at the ground, sitting silently before Father. I had no idea how he had found his way here, but it did not matter at that moment.

After a long silence, he addressed me. Extending the letter in his hand to me, he said, “Read it when you are in the position to, Margo.” He paused to wipe a tear. “Your Dada had addressed it to me. I read it this morning and came looking for you the instant I finished. I want to tell you what’s written in here, but I find myself at a loss of words, my child. Read it when you can muster the courage and though I am in no position to ask of it my child, but if it is possible to forgive me for what I have done in this life or the next, I would be eternally grateful. Eternally grate—”

He couldn't complete the rest for he broke down like I had never fathomed before. I held the letter closely to my heart and held Father’s hand. And I wondered, how Dada had always given me things- his love, his care, his kindness. Even in death, Dada had given me my father back. Such had been his love.

A week had passed since I had learnt of Dada’s death. Father had put the moving out-of-town plans on hold indefinitely. Though things around me were functioning normally, I found myself numb, mentally and emotionally. It felt as if someone had scooped out ‘life’ from my being and left a void inside my heart.

I spent most of the day cleaning and putting things to silence the voices in my head. I was cleaning the drawers of my table when I saw the letter Father had given to me in front of Dada’s headstone.

With trembling fingers, I opened it. This was the last memory of Dada that I possessed. His thoughts and kind heart were poured into the letter that lay in my hand.

It was addressed to Father-

Sir,

My name is Darren Washington. I am the ticket collector on the bus your daughter Margo takes to school every day. She calls me Dada.

I am also the one who dropped Margo tonight, after her dance performance, which I attended on your behalf. I apologize for the discretion I exercised in this matter.

The memory of meeting Margo for the first time has and will continue to reside in my mind till I die. It was a bright Thursday; she was sitting in the second last row and fidgeting with her notebook. When I first saw her, I saw a vividness in her face, as if a cheer and liveliness lay behind her diffident exterior. She is a soulful child, but they weren’t the exact reasons behind the tears that welled up in my eyes when I saw her. The reason behind them was that she reminded me of my daughter- Mia.

I have always believed that when God makes you different compared to others, He also makes you capable of feeling and understanding things better than the rest. Margo’s muteness elevated her sense of emotions and feelings. I saw a sheer craving for love and a desire for honest understanding in her eloquent eyes. Even though she couldn’t speak, I saw her put genuine effort into trying to communicate and convey her thoughts, even though it disheartened her at times.

I tried to spend every moment I could with her- not only because I adored her and the way she looked at the sun in the morning, but also to atone for what I couldn’t give my daughter.

She was a very lively girl- my Mia. Happy, cheerful, and optimistic. She wanted me to be there for her parent-teacher meeting, her annual days, and her sports events, but I was never a part of them because there was always some work, some meeting which I considered important, and some clients to attend, who all seemed more important to me than my daughter and her early childhood years.

I was utterly myopic and so caught up in my world, that I forgot to rejoice in my fatherhood and contribute to her years growing up.

Sir, I understand your busy hours and reasons. Trust me, no one can understand it better than I do. But here’s one thing that I want to be understood.

I am a failed father, sir. A father who lives with regret for not being there for his daughter; a father who screamed at his daughter for asking for a Sunday picnic at the zoo because I wanted to fix a tile in my study. A father who knows that I’d have to live with this regret till I die and in Margo, I found a way to atone for it; I found a way to give love and spend the moments with her that I could and will never be able to do with my daughter.

I wish I had loved Mia more than I could show. I wish I had attended her school events and laughed with her like a father should. I wish I had more time with her.

I wish hopelessly, because she is dead, sir.

My daughter is dead.

Five years ago, my wife, Mia, and I were in a parking lot. While I excused myself for a moment to receive a call, an unknown attacker started stabbing people indiscriminately. When I turned, I saw the knife go through Mia’s gut. Within a second, he hurled Mia down the railing of the three-storied building.

Her ghoulish cry continues to ring in my ears to this day. Though I tackled the attacker and the police came in, from the corner of my eye, I saw my wife, traumatized and numb by what had happened. She looked at me for a second, but the horror in those eyes screamed of the impending doom that lay ahead. She looked over the railing and then jumped to her death, unable to reconcile with the reality of living in a world where Mia didn’t exist. In around five minutes, my entire world had ceased to exist.

I spent years in therapy, but nothing could eliminate the pain, the regret, and the horror of that day. The silence that I returned to after work, was unbearable.

I spent days and months lost in memories that were left behind- her photographs, her little clothes, her books.

Mia was fond of sunrise. She took the same bus that your daughter does every day. She would often come to me running and talk about the beautiful farms, the sun, and the school events of the day, like any twelve-year-old does. But I never paid heed to them; I ignored and sidelined them as crass information that did not need my attention. It breaks my heart to think how she would’ve felt when I did this and the pain in Margo’s eyes was a living reflection of that.

The life I spent with Margo in these few months is an alternate reality of what could’ve been my reality had I treated my daughter right. The pain in her eyes of feeling unheard and unloved by you was a window to the sorrow that I gave my daughter which I never noticed.

I feel attached to Margo on a deep emotional level, sir. I consider her my daughter. She is bright and special just like the Sun that we both adore every day.

I took up the job of a ticket collector only because I could see every day what my daughter did when she went to school on the same bus. I took it to feel close to her and attenuate the injustice that I treated her with, which I was blithely unaware of.

If you’ve read up till this point, I hope what I did would make sense to you and you’d lose the anger and the feeling that Margo is inferior or crippled.

Children are a gift of the Almighty, sir. They come in all forms but represent the innocence and love that we seem to lose sight of as we get occupied in our adult lives. No child is weak, poor, ugly, or disabled. They’re special in their own way. I believe every child in the world has only ever wanted their parent to love and care for them regardless of their flaws.

Margo wants your love and attention, sir. The love you give her today will resonate with her for a lifetime; it is the same love that she’d give her children when she becomes a mother.

She wants you to be present for her; she wants to make you feel proud of her, not consider her any inferior or disabled compared to other kids. She is young, impressionable, petulant, capricious, and not the most abiding girl, but she is a part of you. She needs the reassurance of being loved and accepted by her father which she can fall back on when the world laughs and mocks her.

And if you fail to provide it, there’s nothing more you’d be able to do than regret the way I still do. The purgatory of regret is so tormenting, that I would wish I not even upon the devils.

Which is why, I must hereby inform you that I do not have much time left of my mortal life. I have an acute affliction of leukemia. I do not have much time left. I have not informed Margo about it, because I didn’t want the joy and life in her eyes to fade away.

When I am gone, I want you to apologize to Margo for keeping this from her.

Tell her that her Dada loved her in life and beyond. And he’ll always love her. I want her to be happy and strong. I want her to live with the optimism and joy that she is capable of.

I wish I could’ve given her more candies and admired more sunrises with her. I wish I could’ve been there longer to see her smile and the innocent, callous scribblings in her Hello Kitty notebook. I wish I could’ve lived longer to fill her life with the love she deserves and Mia deserved and millions of ignored children deserve.

I wish…

Three weeks later, I took the bus again. The sun continued to shine; the farms looked greener than ever. I purchased a ticket from the collector on duty, smiling gently at him.

I looked outside the window, holding the bag in my hand firmly.

When the bus made it to the destination, I deboarded and walked the same path I had walked three weeks ago that afternoon. The ‘FOR SALE’ board had been removed and a new family had moved into Dada’s house.

It made me wonder how life never stopped for anybody. The wheel of time kept rotating, stopping for nothing and nobody. I found it very unfair, to be honest. I told Papa about it too, and he told me that even though it was unfair, it was the ultimate truth of life. So, I could either let the wheel rotate to the point that I never catch up with it, or I try and take small steps to bridge the distance.

It would be difficult, initially, but for the eventual good, the initial pain must be borne.

So, I was bridging the distance. Each day- a little more.

Dada wanted me to be happy and joyous; he wanted the ray of optimism to never fade away and if I gave up, I would fail him.

And I will never fail Dada.

I made my way to the cemetery and stood before his headstone. I placed a flower on his grave. I opened the bag I had been carrying and took the pink frock out. I had bought it with all the money that Dada never took from me on the bus.

I always wanted to see my daughter in a pink princess frock

I smiled softly as I recollected what I never knew would be my last conversation with Dada.

I knelt and murmured a short prayer. Then, I wrote a quick note and placed the frock near the headstone-

Maybe now, you can finally see her in a pink princess frock, Dada.

On the bus back home, I sat silently as the bus went through the dark tunnel.

My hands were resting on my legs and I suddenly felt something in my pocket.

A candy.

The candy that I forgot to eat on my last bus journey with Dada.

A silent tear rolled down my cheek. As I ate the candy, I closed my eyes. The tunnel seemed to get darker.

And at that moment, I understood what I had never understood; what Dada had meant.

There is always light at the end of the tunnel.

With gratitude, I opened the candy box and placed the final wrapper in it.

"There is always light at the end of the tunnel…” My heart whispered.