This one's about a girl. One with a soul as pure as could be, a smile that could launch a few ships, a naiveté which is the quintessence of innocence and dreamy eyelashes on which fairies dance. One with whom I'd love to spend all my time. I have known her for a while now and even get to see her every so often. But, boy, would I like to know her better! A dainty little thing she is, brimming to the gills with goodness, gaiety and giggles. A slightly upturned, petite nose on which perch a pair of ever-slipping glasses and mousey teeth that peep out from behind her pink lips -- all in all, she looks awfully cute. She's a dusky lass, long of limb, bony of built and an adorable awkwardness in speech, gait and poise. An awkwardness I'd give my right arm to see more of. But the package isn't entirely perfect -- a flaring temper rides pillion to those glasses and dark scowls fly directly, mostly at yours truly. Though as delicate as a rose petal for the most part, she's tough as nails when annoyed. Nonetheless, I wish I could meet her more often, irk her some more, converse endlessly with her about sweet nothings. I am sure she wouldn't mind, either. If only I could. This one's about Shivani, my daughter. Believe me, I could have written about yours, but you would appreciate I have not been able to make her acquaintance. Yet all daughters, like diamonds, are forever: the light of your life, the pride of the family, the butterfly in your garden, the rhythm of your heart. So fragile, you can't but handle them with kid gloves; so gentle, you dare not speak harshly with them; so lovely, it's almost painful to let them out of your sight. She's hyperactive -- can barely stay still for more than a few seconds -- shakes involuntarily the moment some music is on; sticks her tongue out at me as she gangs up with her mother; screws up her face when I crowd her with kisses; hates my stubble and is extremely ticklish. A stern look melts her into a puddle of tears. It tugs at my heartstrings to just talk about it. A journalist by profession and a daydreamer by habit, I am a father heavily short of time for the apple of my eye. My vocation doesn't always allow me the luxury of spending long hours with the little one. So, whenever while I'm with her, I dub it 'quality' time. I am certain this is pedigreed balderdash, but it's quite a salve for my febrile soul. The fact that I'm not alone in this predicament is not much consolation. But I do derive some solace from the knowledge that hundreds of kindred souls undoubtedly identify with this scenario. Girls and curiosity, you would agree, are like Siamese twins -- inseparable. Still in that Daddy-the-moon-is-walking-with-us age, my only child is full of questions -- mostly quaint and occasionally unanswerable. How I wish I could share more time with her, even if it means facing her baffling queries and fibbing my way out of tricky situations. Three or four years ago, while going through our wedding photographs, she suddenly realised that she didn't feature in any of them. "Daddy, where was I? Why are there no pictures of me?" That got the wife's goat, but I told her slyly that she was the one taking the pictures and so... Now, though, she's started questioning that answer. Father Time has his own ideas; he doesn't stop for parents who want to catch up with their kids. And, boy, do they grow up in a jiffy! Okay, she's only eight and there's still a lot of time left for me to spend with her... But wasn't it just yesterday that I held that lovely lump of lard with flailing extremities and fingers you could barely see, that miraculous bundle of joy with a loud noise, that tiny thing with eyes screwed shut and crying loudly -- probably at having seen what her old man looked like? She seems to have sped through her eight years in a flash. Tomorrow, suddenly, she will be 18 and will hardly have time for me. I remember most of her firsts... the first time I saw her smile in her sleep, the first time she drew blood after hurting herself, the first time she had a fevered brow, the first time she lost her tooth -- only to realise later she had gulped it down -- her first day at school, her first crush on a matinee idol... I wish I could occasionally take her out on long treks and hikes. Wish I could walk with her on the dewy grass, braving the crisp, cool early morning air. Wish I could plant saplings with her and see the delight on her face as she sees her trees grow big. Wish she hadn't lost her springy curls which have since gone straight... I wish I could wrestle with her and engage in her favourite pillow fights more often. Wish I could race with her in parks and splash about with her in ponds, spraying her with water... I wish I could see her admonish her imaginary students as she plays teacher, wish I could play the horse more often as she rides me, wish I had recorded her lisping, staccato gibberish when she was younger. Wish I am around to hear her startled squeals as a dragonfly hovers close to her nose... Wish I am around to wipe that welling tear in her eye, when she comes home bruised after a brawl with the neighbourhood bully... Wish I could read her stories each night, of fairies and princesses and charming princes. Wish I could see her blurt out her passages at her elocution contests, wish I were there the last time when she forgot her lines and was inconsolable for a full week, wish I were around to clap madly as she took that prize this time around. Wish I could see her prancing during her Bharatanatyam classes in all her angular inelegance, wish I could see more of her as she catwalks about the house aping beauty queens. She called me Shishir and her mom Anju till, four years ago, her teachers got wise to the manner in which she addressed us. A strict warning from them and, a couple of days later, we were rechristened Daddy and Mummy. I miss the original address sorely. Schooling spoils kids. She's picking up tricks by the dozen and a lenient father is always the best target. She calls up the office and speaks to me about things I understand nothing about, she tries to imitate my gruff voice to call her mother, she slips her parathas quietly into my plate at the dinner table, she's started to whistle... Wish I could just see her grow up... But employment means time away from your kids. And, in these times, when 24 hours aren't enough in a day, it's a lost battle. Invariably, I see her when the little angel is already fast asleep, cuddling her teddy bears and stuffed toys... She can't figure out why some people insist on giving her cash instead of dolls on her 'happy birthday'; she's perplexed at why her old man can't join her friends on the floor as she turns the house into a discotheque; she's irked at the fuss her parents create when she lingers over her breakfast... She's crazy about her dainty shoes, her dolls, her teacher, her mother's lipsticks and sarees, McDonald's, her mom, her grandparents, Popeye, Hrithik Roshan, the neighbour's son... Thankfully, she's crazy about me too!!! She doesn't care much for our visits to places where she can't find a playmate. Then, wanting to get out of there, she gently reminds us that her teddy misses her. But the thing that annoys her the most is why her pop can't come home on time, like other obedient fathers do. Wish I could answer that query to her satisfaction. Yes, this is about Shivani. But it could be about Simran or Smita or Shabana or Sharon. Daughters, after all, are all the same. I hope she blossoms into a fine young lady; I'd love to be known as her father. Anyway, I'd better cut this short and get back home. I miss her already... Shishir Bhate, as you may have guessed, is now planning to go on leave for at least a week. Page design and illustrations: Lynette Menezes ALSO READ: Miss you, Dad... My recent trip to heaven Do tell us what you think of this diary
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