A Daughter’s Inheritance
It was the first thought that came to her as she woke up. He was gone. And, soon this bedroom, the house in whose eastern corner it sat, and the tiny garden outside with its gnarled old red hibiscus and the half- grown mango tree they had planted together, all those would be gone as well. It was the strangest feeling ever. She got up and went to the kitchen to make some strong tea. Black, she always took her tea black just like her father had. It had been two days since his demise; mowed down by a truck while on his morning walk. Each night since, she had fallen asleep and woken up the next morning with his face in her mind. This house and its garden was where she’d grown up. This was where she’d rode her first bicycle, worn her first saree and kissed her first love. A slight smile spread across her face at that last thought. The house and its garden were soon going to be a memory. Her brother had inherited all of her father’s possessions and had decided to sell the place. A businessman with designs to start a resort was offering a very generous price. It wasn’t that her father had deprived her of an inheritance; it was she who had repeatedly insisted that she wanted none of his possessions after his time. She had always been fiercely independent. But when she heard that the place was going to be sold, she did feel somewhat deprived. It was she who had always been more sentimentally attached to the place. After all she had seen the house being built. Her father had personally supervised its construction. He would stand under the hot sun beneath an umbrella shouting out instructions and she’d stand beside him, watching as bricks, cement, iron rods, wood and paint came together to create a home. Her brother was much too young then, just an infant in their mother’s arms. Their mother, who had passed away not too long after; having hardly spent a year in the new house. She remembered the times when she and her brother would help their father plant a small garden, carrying bags with seeds and shoots. All of which had grown, flowered and produced fruit. Her brother was still only a toddler. He’d even missed the time they had planted a new mango tree in their garden on father’s 70th birthday. But she knew her brother’s reasons for selling were more than just about sentiments or money. He had fallen out with their father after he married for the second time; 32 years after their mother’s death. She had supported her father then. She was happy that he had found love again and it did not bother her that it was with a woman just about the same age as her. All that mattered was that her father was happier than she’d ever seen him be. She sat on her father’s chair sipping the last of her tea when a small boy climbed on to her lap and wrapped his hands around her. She kissed his head, glad to feel his tiny hands around her. He was not her son. She was running forty but she had never married or had kids. Just hadn’t found the right man yet. The little boy was her half-brother from her father’s second marriage. His mother had died giving birth to him. It was not entirely true that her father had left her no inheritance. She had him. And he had their father’s smile, the smile that made her feel that everything would eventually be alright. She’d build a home for them and they’d plant a garden together and everything would be alright. Just alright.
