Guilt

The consternation on my daughter's face was evident. Usually Baby was the one benefitting off vitamins from curries that I'd painstakingly cook for her faster bone growth and brain development. Now though, half and hour after a hair raising screech and follow up tantrums, she had settled down to eat, but without Baby. 

"Come on, you can't waste the curry. I'd already told you, should've mixed it up with rice! "

She shot me a look which had an odd mix of anger, plea and irritation. Turning to her father, she made a teary eyed plea, asking him to let her off. He made a whole show of deep contemplation, perfectly topping it with a sigh and "can I try feeding you? If you don't eat, you won't beat me in fist punch" and a shrug. 

She appeared to consider his offer and  extended her terms - "will you tell me a story? "

My daughter was already learning to stand up and state her terms, I should've been overcome by pride. 

Instead, all I felt was an emptiness and an emphatic need to cry. 

It was His idea. He suggested that we hide that damned doll so she would eat all of her food. 

I was the executioner. Holding her baby doll in my hands, I wasn't prepared for the wave of resentment I would feel for an inanimate thing that ignited my daughter's imagination and love. 

I would observe her as she played with her Baby- bathing it, dressing it, feeding it, putting it to sleep, making it listen to songs, teaching it and braiding its hair with her father's help. I wondered if someone could trace the same devotional twinkle I have in my eye as I hold, feed and dress my daughter. I wonder if my Mother had the same glow that I have when my daughter licks her plate off after a particularly tasty meal. I wonder if it worth it to keep track of the small surges of motherly pride every now and then. 

It has been a while since I've seen her finish her food, since I've fully listened to her laugh and listened to her stories from school. I look on with a hint of jealousy as she narrates these stories to Baby, talking devotedly to it, asking it for opinions on whom to make friends with and who was right, as it stares back at her with a silly painted on grin. 

I wonder if I am a little abrupt with her, if I have stopped listening to her- stories of whose lunch was tastiest and whose notebook was pretty and who went for a fancy meal and outing. Little things that fill up her 5 year old mind and occupy her thoughts, I wonder if I was a little too hasty in dismissing them as inconsequential. 

Is that where I lost my daughter to the doll? 

Needless to say, I was fully onboard when he suggested that we hide the doll as a means of getting her to eat well. 

Holding the doll in my hand, I stared at it, as if to extract the stories my daughter has told it, or to bask in the glow of love my daughter showered it with. It continued to look at me with its stupid grin.

I decided that Baby was not worth it, decided that I had the upper hand in that competition for the affections of a five year old, on account of my mobility and capability of thought. 

I shoved it into a suitcase and closed it shut, feeling a shot of perverse pleasure as I imagined its suffocation. I couldn't meet my daughter's eyes, coming back from the crime scene. I steeled my heart and waited for her to catch up with the cold ironies of love. 

In the bed, curled up into a foetal position, I reflected on my jealousy. Too hollow to cry, too tired for anger, I just lay there, hoping that I'll have enough work to distract me with, waiting for me at the office tomorrow. I feel a small hand crawling up my belly and turn to find my daughter sneak in beside me. 

"I Loved that veggie amma! Achan told me the story of how it became So tasty!! Will we have it again soon?"

"Yes kanna, soon enough". I hold her and feel the cold where my tears grazed my cheeks. Crawling nearer for warmth and holding on tighter to her my daughter, I lie and cry. 

Tomorrow she will wake up to find her life and my conscience lying next to her, smiling its classic silly painted on smile.