When I was born, I was looked down upon. Don't know why? I was simply there to bring colour to life. At least that's what Grand pa said! Girls are the best thing that can happen to mankind. They can sing, dance, look like painted butterflies, have all the freedom to bring in as much pink in a single household than one can imagine.
I wonder what happens when we grow up. Fathers look up with strained responsible smiles at us, abandon us for all the mindless expenses (something that was all-so-important to stencil our lives so far!) stare at us for our glimmering faces. All that is so pivotal is the wad of notes that I have to save for a "better prospect", whatever that may be. Tracing a few steps behind me is one of the familiar scenes from a ruffle of childhood memories. I loved the look on my father's face when he scanned my scraped knee deeply with his brown tinted eyes. I instantly believed in my heart that no man can be as concerned or as handsome as the visage I saw from the corner of my eye. Of course the wound never hurt as much as I expressed; something, he secretly felt too, but somehow, at the time the mercury chrome seemed all so important to be applied.
He taught me colours, that the golden hue in the red ointment was an indicator of something that the medicine just had to contain. When I asked him why does it shine, he tried to explain convincingly that it had to do with the additional fighters that I had applied therein. I looked at the cotton; it was drenched with a dangerous looking (almost like blood looked like in the Eastman colour movies) brick red, tarnishing my fingers. I would often imagine that perhaps the heroes of the era use a lot of it on their body while shooting some fight scenes. On exclaiming he would smile and ask, 'And why would that be?' 'Well, in case they get hurt, they have already covered themselves with precaution', I gasped. 'After all, you were the one who told me that prevention is better than cure!' I grinned feeling intelligent.
It was and has been a truly cherished childhood. There are many pages that I unfold while escaping to a better world, far better than the incessant clatter of the lappie. Pity some fathers don't have the time anymore. Their time gets wallowed up with reports, presentations, endless Excel tabs, targets and exceeding targets. Unfortunately these few actually get time to discuss cricket, gadgets, political chattering with their sons. The daughter just smiles through the drapes hoping to budge in and while she glimmers in wanting to say something, trying too hard not to intervene too much, the overtly responsible father returns. I wish Dad's would understand that all of us have the same amount of estrogen in us, so its ok to be feelers at times, at least better than being rational prototypes that they are!
