here’s the podcast version~

My parents separated when I was 8. Getting my custody was a cakewalk for my mother since my father never even showed up for the divorce. This is a letter I wrote to my alcoholic father in 2023 but never sent. I haven’t edited it to suit my style now, it’s still the same raw first draft.

Here goes:

A letter that I didn’t send for thirteen years~

---

When I was 10 years old I thought memories of you would fade as time took its flow,

When I was 13 years old I held onto them so strongly to cook up the most believable story for anyone who enquired about your whereabouts,

When I was 18 years old I decided to leave the clutches I held onto so strongly for a decade.

I shut my eyes, breathed in and out and then opened them.

It didn’t work?

Okay let me try again.

I shut my eyes, breathed in and out and then opened them again.

Still feels heavy.

Well they say the third time’s a charm,

Okay last time.

I shut my eyes, deep breath in this time, held it for a moment, and deep breath out, Phew!

Opened my eyes

What?

Nothing has changed?

How is that possible? 10 year old Bhadra told me that you would fade away in a few years, it has been 8 and why won’t you let me be? Why won’t they leave?

When you left me, how could you have been so careless that you forgot these memories you gave me?

Shouldn’t you as “my father” have known that I was too young to know that these memories would weigh me down?

Shouldn’t you as “my father” taken the load off of my chest before you left?

Shouldn’t you as “my father” known better than to make a child and not bother to be a father?

You failed me father, you failed me.

The world may see you as a failure in many ways,

But in little Bhadra’s eyes, you failed as a father the moment you chose to give up against your addiction.

Wasn’t fatherhood more intoxicating than the intoxication that you chose over me?

Was I a bad child father?

Is it because i jumped into the teapoy and the glass shattered into pieces?

Is it because my poor grandma took a piece of that chicken fry for this little daughter of yours on that drunk night of yours?

Is it because I didn’t let you unleash the beast in you, to my already wounded mother?

You wounded her in so many different ways for 11 years

And by the time I grew old enough to stand up for her, you grew scared of the questions I would have for you and left.

Oh wait is that why you left?

Is that why you won’t come back in search of me, atleast to know if I am goddamn alive?

Father, do you know that I have a recurring nightmare where you show up unannounced in front of me, in the middle of the street?

And I wake up terrified, every single time

Why am I terrified of you?

Why am I terrified of getting the answers i have been searching for over a decade?

Why am I terrified of not being able to hate you?

Yeah that’s right, it feels like since forever i have been trying to hate you, for what you did to my poor undeserving mother and for abandoning me.

And I have been failing every single time.

Yes I failed. I haven’t forgotten a single crease on your face, your odor, your shivering palms every morning.

Well i must have gotten it from you, being a failure.

But one big difference father, I failed trying

I was not a coward like you.

Memories of you continue to flash in my eyes every other day but I have learnt to let it pass

Because it feels physically exhausting to try and forget them

Instead you know what I did?

I created new ones with my mother who by the way is “my REAL father”

She has been there for my annual days, parent teacher meetings, college admissions and every other small to big step.

She drives me wherever I want and sometimes she drives me crazy.

She buys me surprise birthday presents and breaks the surprise to me one month before because she can never wait to see me jump in joy.

And she has the bravest heart, for finally leaving you, after 11 long exhausting futile years.

As I write this, I am 20 years old

You still follow me around like a shadow.

This is a letter to you, father

You who didn’t bother fighting for me

Because abandoning felt easier than fatherhood, I suppose?

A year after writing this “letter”, I met him again for the first time in 14 years. It took everything in me to take that step, but I wanted the nightmares to stop. That meeting stayed locked within me; I put it away without processing it, and it took me a whole other year before I could put this next piece into words.

Here goes:

A Call I Never Made After Fourteen Years~

---

june 11th 2024.

the bravest day i have pushed through.
a month of anticipation.
anticipation of grief, or the hope of its end?

questions from my family, from the only side i have, the only side i want~

how do you feel? are you nervous?

suddenly they were strangers.
them on the outside, watching me inside,
like i was in a museum box.

i screamed;
a white noise seemed to leak out of the box.
they looked at my empty face, my empty words.
meeting the man who agonized your mother, after fourteen years.
how do they suppose i feel?

remorse, for even wanting to meet him.

the moment darkness filled my eyes, 
the demons showed up; judging me.

i thought they were sent by the angels outside the box, my family.

i opened my eyes: they weren’t looking.
i shut them again.
all along, the demons had been sent by my own mind?

the first demon leans into my left ear. i turn my head that way.
its breath, hot as it whispers:

how can you not hate him? he stripped you of your childhood.
he never fought for you, never came for you, never showed up for you.

then the second creeps up on my right, i swiftly turn.

he scarred your mother, humiliated her before everyone, tore her apart, both bone and mind.

then, in unison; the demons yell with shrill voices, their gory teeth flash before my eyes:

you are no longer the child who could only watch your life from the sidelines, unable to ask or act.
grow up. stop with this act of drama. 
it’s not as hard as you cry it out to be.
you have to ask.
you have to find answers.

do you have your list ready?

i… i…
i dont know.
i dont know what to ask.

i , the one who always knows what to say,
what not to,
how to choose words like weapons or shields,
this time, i am blank.

i have all sorts of lists:
of dreams,
of the mundane,
of things i’ll never say,
of… everything!

but

things to ask my father (the man whose DNA runs in you, that is):

**empty**

HELP!

is there no one to help me write this one?
is there no hand to steady mine?
is this a path i’m doomed to walk alone?

sigh

my mind does this funny thing.
she thinks she’s super clever;
thinks she can shield me from every blow before it lands.

this time, she made me a slideshow. 
each slide a different future, 
each one rehearsed like it’s theatre.
(bad theatre)

act 1:

he sees me with watery eyes, a deep sense of regret,
his voice cracking,
he begs for mercy, for forgiveness//

act 2:

he walks in, reeking.
a whiff of cheap rum and fried smoke wraps around me;
i freeze, head spinning. i run out.//

act 3: 

we meet, part.
but then,
he lurks.
appearing uninvited, lingering in my life like a shadow.//

act 4 to 100 kept spinning.
i grew tired.
closed the curtains on this horrendously scripted show.

my mind has saved me before.
she’s read the future
she has foreseen incidents with eerie precision,
kept me safe from many sorrows.
but not this.
not this time.
it played out nothing like what she showed me.

act 101: the real show

he walks in.
a slight stoop in his walk.
i see him.

his cheeks are hollow now. 
skin creased deep with wrinkles, 
there are dark spots scattered across his face like a warning of some stubborn illness.

he doesn’t reek. [phew]
his shirt is crisp, ironed, tucked in.
like a man rehearsing dignity.

he greets my uncle, my aunt, my cousin sister.
meets each of their eyes.

mine? he avoids. 
my eyes wait.
and then:
i am seven again.

they leave to grant us “privacy.”
my sister stays. because, well, i am seven again.

i sit across from him, a metre away.
he asks where we live in bangalore.
i change the subject.

(must protect amma at all costs)

he meets my eyes for barely a second
before looking away;
as if a longer stare might let my insane questions out.

he turns to my sister.
engages in small talk, already knows her updates though.
been following along apparently, all about my family.

i ask him the big question.

do you still drink?

a big swallow.
swallowed shame, i suppose?
puts on a show of courage to answer:

“no… i stopped long ago. i’m diabetic.”

(so that’s why he looks so frail)

again, he asks where we live.
i brush it off: 

“let’s not talk about that. i won’t say.”

his ego bruises.
he says if he’d wanted to come back, he would have tried long ago.

we talk about my career.
i tell him the field i’ve chosen,
my plans for the future.

he asks me to sit beside him to see a family photo.
i move over, still leaving a full foot distance between us.

in the picture,
he’s at his nephew’s wedding.
his siblings surrounded by their spouses and children.
he stands apart, alone, slightly stooped.

i snap out from parallel thoughts, try to pay attention to all their names.

his phone display seems off, the cover is tattered,
he’s slow with it, and it’s slow with him.

i notice his shoes, seems like a cheap roadside buy.
[ is he struggling for money? ]

he rambles about his job
hands me his visiting card.
has his number in it.
the design is sloppy, i think to myself.
says i can call him anytime.

once, he was a graduate student of one of kerala’s most prestigious institutions.
then came college politics.
then alcohol.
and the intoxication never left.

now, he behaves strangely.
ashamed.
the inferiority complex sits heavy;
i can see he sees himself as a loser.

he asks my sister to take a photo of us. 
i don’t move closer.

she shows it to us.
i ask her to take one on my phone too,
just in case, so i don't regret not having it later.

his face lights up slightly since i asked.

she shows the picture
i’m slightly crouched in the picture too.

the whole meeting feels hollow.
plastic.

questions devoid of attachment.
conversation devoid of love.

all a facade?

i just want this to end,
to leave his city.

i signal to my sister,
that it’s time to call my uncle and aunt back.

they return,
relief.
finally time to get rid of this, of him.

i mean, it was nothing like in the movies.
there was no divine DNA connection.
no overflow of tears.

just a numb dream i’m waiting to wake up from.

then my uncle drops it,
lands in my ears like a bomb blast:

"let’s all have lunch together."
[ like we’re all one happy family?]

my father seems to look forward to the meal.
says he needs to use the washroom before leaving for the meal.

my stomach tightens
will he dirty it like our toilets always stank, in all my childhood rented homes?
he goes in.

i whisper to my uncle:

no, i dont have it in me for another meal.
i am done with this act, make him leave.

he takes too long to come out.
was he rehearsing the next act?

he finally comes out.
my uncle awkwardly says that we are all full.
offers to buy him lunch.
i see his face fall, but he quickly conceals it.

“i’m not hungry either.”

he starts blabbering again about his job.
i dont know,
facts don’t check, stories sound little made up.
he keeps pulling up topics;
doesn’t want to leave.
finally, he runs out of words.
an awkward silence fills the room.

he reads the air,
knows he has to go.

reminds me i should call sometimes.
i just smile.
i don’t promise anything.

he leaves.
a sigh, a sigh of relief!

my uncle and aunt want the details.
i start,
then interrupt myself.
ask them to call housekeeping to clean the washroom.

a sense of guilt washes over me for feeling disgust at my own father. 
but i can’t help it.

housekeeping arrives.
my sister and i pick up where we left off, we show them the picture:

my biological father and i, side by side,
palms folded the same way, 
the same slight crouch.
uncanny.
mine is unusual, i don’t normally crouch.

my uncle exhales,
“glad it’s over,” he says.

then, out of nowhere, he cries.

i had never seen him cry before.
not in front of me.
not even in the hardest days.
but this...

“he hurt my little sister. the one we mollycoddled the most. i will never forgive him.”

i think of all the pain he’s left us with.
my whole family needs healing.

i remember amma recalling his childhood day stories,
an unloving family;
a brash father, selfish siblings.

addiction is a disease.
he never found a way out,
no one taught him how to live, how to love.

i am not angry at him; not anymore.
but i don’t love him either.

all i feel is pity,
pity for his present.
but one must live with the consequences of their actions, i think.

i misplaced his visiting card that day.
never took his number from my uncle either.

how do i speak to him like fourteen years didn’t pass between us?
pretend we’re a normal father-daughter?

sometimes i think of ringing him up.
telling him about all my milestones.

but what do i even call him?

acha?

when i never have,
in a decade and half.

i imagine it,
dialing his number, 
voice catching as i say:

“acha?”

---

By Bhadra

evolving. becoming. being.