Dear Stranger,
I have always complained how difficult my life became due to cancer. But, some things did come easy. My boyfriend and father got along very well. They were more compatible than a couple like they shared an inherent cancer connection. I remember his first meeting my father as my boyfriend. I was expecting anger and friction. But, my father understood his need to be loved and mine to give love. One of the more happy times of my life was all thanks to cancer.
"Where you headed?" I casually texted Rishah following days of silence; me spending the last days with my father and him busy with things he did not wish to disclose.
"I have a business merger today, more like a takeover. Those suckers wouldn't even see it come". Sealed with a winky face and another strange emoticon that was a hybrid between a kiss and a tongue assault, he shot me a message.
"Eww", I burst into a fit of laughter distracting my father from his daily ritualistic reading.
"Is that the rich boy you are talking to?"
I did not say but, my nervous lips spoke volumes. Dad drew his hand out to get a hold of my phone.
Like a generation of parents who are yet to figure out the wonders of smartphones, my father pressed a few buttons and talked into the speaker.
"It's father-daughter time. If you want to ask her out, do it the proper way. Talk to me".
"Dad, there is no one on the line. We were texting".
He cleared his throat in embarrassment and being the good sport that he was, took pity on the desperate love birds. His words, not mine.
"Child, he has hope but, I want you to know the road ahead with him might be worse than with me".
"I understand", I used to say that every time we had this conversation. I wish he had been resilient enough to make me bow down. I wish I had not been so certain about the success of our love story.
My father instructed to bring Rishabh over for the oversized commercial holiday that is the Superbowl. I quickly became the master server of the night, as the men bonded like long lost friends. The irony of it all was: their support for the losing team. If you thought the 49ers stood a chance, you were fooling yourself. But there they were, like father and son, ordering me around and cheering for a lost cause of their own. For a minute my Ravens' jersey had changed colours. I found myself wanting to lose so they could win this battle, any battle.
They forced me to wear a drink hat and sit on the floor within reach. My one arm functioned as a popcorn carrier and the free arm to fan one of the two sweaty royals.
The blame for the loss was pinned on my ominous choice of wardrobe and potentially bad fengshui hair colour. Yeah right! A bunch of sore losers who I love to pieces. That was my picture perfect moment captured as an inerasable memory in my mind. If only we had more of those.
"You are never colouring your hair blue again. You hear me?", they both gave me stink eye and I snitched.
"Do you take for an imbecile?. You were in on this Rishabh, you made me colour and now…. Atleast help me!!"
Rishabh made an innocent face and pretended having no knowledge of the act in question.
"Fine, what is my punishment?"
They both made an evil, something-is-certainly-up face and exchanged a smile.
"Chug! Chug! Chug!"
Next thing I knew, my own father and a supposedly gentleman-y suitor were forcing me to gulp down a pint of lager beer in one breath. My natural question after giving in to pressure was, "What kind of a parent does that?"
"The kind who sends his daughter to spa the next day".
I was utterly confused at their secret conspiracy.
"We love you but, we need our space", stated my dad.
"You are too chipku. Go have some fun", Rishabh supplied.
They were kicking me out the next morning for a detox session and I was falling even deeper in love with my carcinogens.
Cricket
Jhanak
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