Nidhi, an adopted child, lost her biological parents in a horrific accident at the tender age of four, resulting in the most traumatic experience of her life.
While her father showers her with love, the same cannot be said about her mother. Nidhi pl...
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Abruptly, the door of my room opened, and Papa stood at the threshold of the room.
"Papa, why did you come? You should have called me," I said, standing up from the bed.
"Why? Can't I come to meet my daughter?" he said, smiling weakly.
He sat on the couch, and I took the bed.
There was an underlying awkwardness between us, a persistent discomfort that stemmed from his experiences with my mother's behavior and his own sense of helplessness.
I refrained from sharing my grievances with him regarding her conduct. I didn't want him to be entangled in the complexities, fearing it might adversely affect his married life, and I didn't want my mother to get more harsh with me. However, the mystery remains as to how he became aware of her bitter behavior. She maintained a façade in front of Papa, reserving her harsh words for private moments. Except for occasional scoldings, which I believe any mother might deliver, she never expressed her disdain in front of him.
"Beta, how is Vaibhav treating you?" He asked, pulling me out of the well of my thoughts, concern evident on his face.
"Papa, he is nice with me," I said, lowering my head, then again glancing at him.
"You don't know how happy you have made me by telling this," he said, tears on the verge of flowing.
"Papa, don't," I said.
"You don't know, these are happy tears," he said, chuckling and wiping off the tears.
"I wanted you to make soup for me; we may not get the chance afterward," He said, smiling.
"Papa, it's not like that but, I'll make it for you. Come," I said, walking towards him and holding his hand.
We together walked out of the room, and he sat on the dining chair.
I planned to make a mixed vegetable soup for him; that's what he liked the most.
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I gathered all the required ingredients on the kitchen slab and started chopping and peeling them.
Soon, I saw my mother walking inside the kitchen.
"Why did you come into my kitchen?" She shouted.
"Mumma, Papa asked for soup," I said, lowering my head.
