Dear Rain-Writer

Dearest Brishtilikha,

That evening, the wind was slipping by outside, touching me as moonlight spilled down. I stood holding the window grille, my gaze lost in that moonlit caress. Suddenly your father called and said, "Help me fix a poem!" We both love poetry. When I got the call, I dove into weaving verses with him. At one point we came to "writing touched by rain." There, I saw your father had used the word "brishtilikha"—rain-writing. The moment I heard it, I was utterly enchanted. I cried out in joy, "Hurray! My daughter will be named Brishtilikha!" Your father agreed with delight.

Yes, that was the moment of your birth.

Know this—your father loves you as deeply as your mother does.

How would you look? Would your eyes be like your father's or your mother's? Would your first word begin with "Ma" or "Baba"—you know how many childish arguments we'd have about such things! Your hair would be silky like your mother's, your room would be filled with a doll family. Like your father, you'd be a bookworm with a little arranged library in one corner of your room. Ah, what dreams we spun around you!

Dear Brishtilikha, you know how I used to cling to your father each time he left, holding him tight. I couldn't bear to let him go. Surely you too would wrap yourself around your father's legs when he tried to leave, saying "Baba, oh Baba, don't go!" with such affection and pleading, wouldn't you?

Your father says you would love Baba more than Ma! Daughters are devoted to their fathers, he claims!

Each time Baba returned home, he'd bring chocolates for you, buy beautiful clothes, and return with all your favorite toys. How joyfully you'd jump into Baba's arms calling "Baba! Baba!" and shower his eyes, face, cheeks, throat, his whole body with kisses and caresses, wouldn't you?

You'd love Baba so very much, yes, wouldn't you?

Dear Brishtilikha,

Now I come to the real matter. Your father and mother are separating. We are moving to opposite banks of the river. We have decided we will not bring you into this world. Because if you came, there would be complications about your parentage. So your father has wisely decided not to let you see the light of this world.

On the other side, your father will have a beautiful home and family. In that house are your stepmother's children. Your father will forget you in an instant. Yes, he will, he can. But me? I am a mother—I cannot forget you at all!

Tell me, Brishtilikha, who would you really have looked like? Me or your father? Would your eyes have been beautiful like Baba's? Would dimples appear when you smiled? Would you have had a cleft chin like both your parents? Would your skin be fair like Baba's or dusky like Ma's? Would your hair be curly like Baba's or flowing like Ma's? You'd love reading books like Baba, wouldn't you? You'd surely be brilliant like him? You'd wear ankle bells and dance around the whole house to music, wouldn't you? You'd have a vast heart like your mother, wouldn't you?

You'd hold Baba close and sing along with him... "Why has the lotus pool filled with water..."

If you had come, your mother's life would have completely changed, wouldn't it? She wouldn't cry alone every midnight anymore, would she? All her time would be spent soothing your tears. Your mother would have completely abandoned her secretly cherished, carefully planned voluntary death, wouldn't she? If you had come, your mother's home would have filled with happiness, surely? This room, that room—all your mother's empty rooms would have been flooded with joy, wouldn't they? Lines of eternal joy would have marked your eternally sorrowful mother's eyes, wouldn't they?

Rather than teaching you math and English, your mother would have taught you human love, compassion, responsibility, and how to be noble, wouldn't she? You would have surely become a tender-hearted person like your mother?

Dear Brishtilikha,

I am sorry. We are both sorry. Your parents are separating. Please forgive both your father and mother. We didn't let you come into the world. You could no longer come to fill our arms. Your two closest people have pushed you the furthest away today. We have confined you to just a name. We only gave you a name, not life... we couldn't give you life. Forgive us, Brishtilikha.

Brishtilikha, countless others like you are born into this world only as names, never growing into full human beings. Forgive us for limiting you to just a name.

Know this with certainty—your parents truly loved you, love you, and will love you.

Yours,
Your cowardly, selfish parents