Monologue to a future daughter

I logged on to facebook this afternoon to be told that it was National Girl Child Day. A couple of hours later, a friend of mine had written a blog post titled 'If I had a daughter, what would I tell her?' and it caught my eye. Thank you Nandhitha, and as promised, for the rest of you, you can visit her writing at http://nandhithahariharan1.wordpress.com/. For want of something better to do on a Friday evening, I decided to give it a shot myself.

As it turns out, this piece is perhaps one of the top contenders on being the most personal and since personal writing calls for a dedication, this is for you, Ma :)

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If I had a daughter, what would I tell her? What would we talk about and what would she remember? Would I talk of the birds and the bees, or the loves and the lies? Of people who stay or those who leave? Of memories that last or others better forgotten? Of lessons taught or those learnt or others just lost in the conquest? If I had a daughter, what would I tell her?

I would tell her to not be afraid; to try and then, perhaps to lose, but to try again. Whether it is jumping the hurdle on the sports field or solving a math problem, whether it is threading a needle or writing a paper, to never get bored of trying. She should not be afraid of loss, of failure, of fear itself. She should open her eyes to the world and her heart to those around her, unmindful of how long they would all last.

I would tell her to trust; trust people, plans and perhaps most of all, herself. She should feel confident of her own abilities, her own person and never be ashamed of smiling at the mirror. She should know what it is to feel special and she should be able to give herself that happiness, for I cannot promise there will always be other people for it. She should trust that as horrendous as it all seems just then, it will all work out because if nothing else, she will make it happen.

I would tell her to be confident; in her abilities, her skill and her image. She should feel beautiful all day, every day. But I know she sure as hell won’t so I would tell her to smile and cherish the people who never fail to remind her.

I would tell her to sing in the bathroom without inhibition, dance in the dark without hesitation and act flawlessly in front of the mirror, with only herself as audience. And if she does all this on stage, I will pat her on the back and kiss her on the forehead and congratulate her, for I know how much it takes.

I would tell her to not hurry love and to look for it in places she never knew existed. She should love her work and her home, her space and her independence, her friends and her family. And when the day comes that The Love comes her way, she should have it in her to give him her all while still remaining her own person, not compromising on what makes her, her.

I would tell her to cherish the people in her life. She should speak with a smile to everyone she meets. She should know the names of the watchmen and housemaids, the drivers and the water boy. She should be grateful for the opportunities that come her way and the people who deliver them to her. She should give credit where it is due yet stand her ground in case of wrong. She should have her girls to gossip with and her guys to be boisterous with, her best friend to open up to and a circle of pleasant faces to offer a smile. And she should give it all (and more) back in return.

I would tell her to choose the voices she lets under the skin. She will have people talking of her height and her weight, her grades and her contests, her skills and her flaws. She will have strangers commenting on her clothes and her body, on how she should act and where she should go and who she should be seen with. She will have a thousand voices dictating the script of her life. She should know who to listen to, who to mute out and who to just humour with a (fake) smile and a (polite) nod.

I would tell her to play like no one is watching, irrespective of what people say of girls on cricket pitches. She should feel the joy of keeping gloves in relation to a tennis racquet, a football in comparison to shooting a three pointer. She should be unafraid of grazed knees and dirty hands, irrespective of how old she is. And every once in a while, I will remind her that her mother still bears the scars of adolescent football.

I would tell her to talk, unafraid and confident. I would tell her to write, uninhibited and free. On those few days, I would tell her to cry like the world was ending and if she asks why, I would tell her that sometimes, the tears wash away the pain and suddenly it all goes away. I would tell her to laugh like no one is listening and if they were, to laugh a little harder and spread the cheer around.

I would tell her that I try, I try very hard to be half the person my mother is. I would tell her stories of her grandmother; of how I was told so many of these things. I will talk of how I was taught to live and to love and to be loved, to accept and be accepted, to comfort and be comforted, to teach and to be taught, to learn and to lead. I would tell her I am the person I am today because of her grandmother and I hope someday, I will be worthy of such emotion.

If I had a daughter, what would I say? Perhaps I will talk for years - till my hair is white and skin is wrinkled, till I repeat myself and she knows it all by heart, till she has children of her own and then still go on. Or perhaps, I will lead her by the hand and take her to my mother and watch the rest unfold.