Everything will be alright

Achchan
noun
Malayalam word for father/Dad
Pronunciation - The 'cha' is similar to the one in Bachchan.

Dear Achcha,

I should've written this letter a long time ago. But some things take time...

The very last time I spoke to you, I had said, "Ellam sheriyavum". In Malyalam, it means 'everything will be alright'. Whenever you saw doubt or unhappiness on my face, you would ask me what the matter was. Sometimes I would be forthcoming with an answer, and then you would offer some advice. At other times, I would just shake my head and say "Nothing". Whatever be my answer, you would always say 'Ellam sheriyavum'. And even if the problem wasn't solved, I would find it a little easier to believe that it would indeed be alright.

When I saw you in the hospital room that day, I told you that everything would be alright. Because I believed it myself and I wanted you to believe it too. By the time I saw you again, everything wasn't alright. You didn't wake up to tell me that it would be alright again.

Achcha, I thought it was unfair that you could just go like that without warning. I was angry at life for pulling a trick like this, and furious at God for being so heartless. But being angry takes a lot of energy. Maybe that's why I decided to run away from anything that caused me pain.

I don't know if it was deliberate, but I stopped thinking about you as much as I could. So much so that I stopped noticing that you weren't around.

I've thought a lot about why I did that. Was it because I didn't want to remember you? No. Was it that I'd actually forgotten? No. The answer is that I was afraid.

No picture of Achchan and me is complete without Amma.

Fear is like the small black spot I have on my hand - I don't know when exactly it appeared, but I don't notice it anymore. I don't know when fear crept into my mind, but I can see that's the reason I did or didn't do so many things.

I didn't think about you, because I was afraid that anything I remembered would only be a poor copy of the time you were with us. More than that, I was afraid of the regret that I would feel when I did remember that last day at the hospital. I should have stopped by to visit you, but I went home. I didn't reach until you'd lost consciousness. I was afraid that I had let you down, Achcha.

I was wrong. It took me a while to realise it, but I know it now. If there has to be just one thing that I'm completely sure about, it's that you never lost faith in me. You've questioned my choices sometimes - to make me ask myself if I was doing what I wanted. After you were gone, I stopped asking myself whether I was actually doing what I wanted. In the midst of fulfilling expectations - both others' and mine - I forgot so many things that I enjoyed. There's a reason that I had almost stopped singing these two and half years. You - the one person who found joy in my singing, no matter how bad it was - were gone.

I know I didn't let you down. I can't let you down, because you will always have faith in me, no matter what. If there has to be anyone that I've let down, it's myself. You see, I was afraid of being happy. I wasn't supposed to be happy, because how could I be without you around?

You're not around anymore, but you're still there for me and always will be. You're there for me, because the belief you have in me can endure anything.

I'll make two promises to you today. One, that I won't ever stop singing. And two, that I will always believe in myself. I know there's the chance that I might break those promises some day. Fear doesn't go away too easily, after all. But even if I do, I'm going to say 'Ellam sheriyavum', and everything just might be fine after all.

Love,
Anjali

The thought behind this post came to me after listening to 'Mitwa' - composed by Shankar-Ehsaan-Loy and sung by Shafqat Amanat Ali.

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