The Paratha

Grace and sophistication left the audience mesmerised as Toyaa swerved herself to the tune of ballet dancing. Deep down my stomach, I felt a chasm. It seemed to awaken me uttering, "Will she be able to take the split and move to the next step?". Glittering drops of tears along with shimmering beads of sweat trickled down my face as I sat in the auditorium. An unknown feeling grasped my soul- one that is inexplicable.

Earlier in the morning, while wearing her white outfit, Toyaa had mentioned in the most endearing manner, "You cannot cook parathas like Aarna's mom. Everyday I eat cakes and nachhos in my school. But I have accepted it. My teacher told me not to bring junk to school. I told her that my mother goes to work and so she can't cook early morning. Mamma, I may not do the ballet dance well again this time. Just accept my defeat". The words of the six year old girl made me guilty and dug my skin like a knife leaving scars of despair, as she embraced me like a leech, refusing to let go my arms. I ensured that I made a paratha for her breakfast and put it in her tiffin box that day.

Toyaa in other words means water or life. She is my new found life. Few thoughts engulfed my soul and I felt inhumane and cynical as she danced on the stage. Am I trying to control her life trying to fulfill my unaccomplished? Am I not allowing her to grow the natural way? Am I going against the natural laws of the universe? I was questioning the individual or the once invisible bacterium turned to a human embryo without realising the power of genetic engineering. I was questioning the Platonic ontology of art which cannot be created, but discovered. The only one thing that I knew she had, was her childhood pliability. Ms. Ratika and Ms. Cauvery her ballet choreographers and mentors had faith in her. "Why is it that I am not able to build a similar level of confidence in my child?, I thought.

Rhythmic beauty and poise soon won over the hearts of the judges. I tasted ecstasy for the first time. Toyaa was soon accompanied by her teacher with one of her ballet shoe in hand. The teacher handed it over to me, mentioning that the shoe had a hole in the sole. ".The gleeful child of mine reminded me of the umbilical cord as she met me with a trophy on one hand and the empty tiffin box on the other. Our eyes met and soon we were embracing and kissing each other like the early morning sun-kissed beach where the warmth seems to be enticing. Mamma, you had forgotten to buy new shoes for me. But that's ok", she said as she held me tightly and began to consume herself in the black hole of my embrace. Her words voiced the language of the secret universal nucleotide.

I promised myself: I would make better parathas.