Dear Daughter,

I have written many letters to you till now. About growing up, about dreams, about books, about life. But somehow, we never really spoke about how you came into this world… what you were like as a little child… and how, quietly and completely, you gave a whole new meaning to our lives.

So today, I want to talk about you.

I still remember the day the doctor told me that you existed – just a tiny dot inside my womb. Such a tiny thing… and yet capable of changing an entire universe. I was excited and nervous at the same time. Happy like a child, worried like an old soul. Thankfully, your dad was there to keep me sane.

A few weeks later, the doctor advised complete bed rest because of some complications. I don’t think I have ever listened to any doctor so seriously in my life. I barely moved. And that was perhaps the first lesson motherhood taught me – how another life suddenly becomes more important than your own.

Those nine months were not easy. I dealt with constant nausea, and I could not bear the smell of food, especially onions. But mangoes? The moment I had mangoes, you would dance inside me – a little fluttering celebration that made me laugh every single time. That love of mangoes, as you know, has never left you.

Like every mother, I had my share of fears and negative thoughts too. But I tried my best to keep them away. I read endlessly during those months – fiction, philosophy, the Geeta, anything and everything I could find. Maybe that is why you grew up loving books so much.

I worked almost till the very last month because I wanted to keep myself busy. And now, every time you imitate my mannerisms or the way I speak with absolute perfection, I smile and think – perhaps you learnt it all while quietly listening to me from inside.

And then finally, on a beautiful day in May – you arrived.

I still remember being wheeled into the operation theatre. Because of the anesthesia, I didn’t know what was happening. Then I heard your faint cry.

And I immediately asked, “kya hai?”

Someone replied, “You have a beautiful daughter.”

I don’t remember much after that because I lost consciousness soon after. But I remember the feeling in my heart – relief, joy, gratitude… and an indescribable fullness.

Your early years were magical.

I became a child all over again – running behind you, laughing at your antics, constantly amazed by you.

And my God, you were talkative. So talkative that sometimes we would literally fold our hands and say, “Bas, ab thodi der chup ho jao!” (Just kidding… though not entirely.)

You started speaking when you were barely eight months old and were talking in proper sentences by your first birthday. One of my favourite memories is from your first birthday itself. You were slightly unwell and had a fever, but the moment you tasted cake, your face lit up with such pure happiness that every single person in the room smiled with you.

Even then, you were resilient.

You loved running. Fast. Endless running.

GIP Mall in Noida holds so many memories of you. The moment we entered, you would sprint through the long corridors, then stop after some distance just to check if we were still following you – and the second you saw us behind you, you would run even farther.

Mandarin Trail became our comfort place over the years. The same staff watched you grow from a tiny child into a teenager. Some places quietly become part of family history.

You also had this adorable habit of picking random things from school or television and becoming obsessed with them for months.

Eating laddoos dramatically and running like Bheem from Chhota Bheem.

Talking like characters from Oggy and the Cockroaches.

Perhaps your love for theatre started there itself.

At the same time, there were your little quirks – constantly twirling your hair from both sides or interlocking your fingers in strange ways – and we would often wonder, “Yeh sab aata kahan se hai?”

You were always happy-go-lucky, though you became cranky the moment you got hungry. Eventually, we learnt to identify your hunger before you did.

But when it came to silent mischief – you were number one.

Like the time you secretly tried watching all 1100+ Harry Potter video on YouTube until I discovered it slightly too late… and by then, you already needed spectacles.

Or when you fell from the edge of the sofa while watching TV and lost two teeth – yet didn’t cry much at all.

What amazes me even today is your courage with injections. I still say “aaah” dramatically before every injection. You barely flinch. Brave girl.

School teachers adored you from Nursery onwards because you were not just obedient, but also caring. On your very first day of school – despite never having attended preschool – you ended up consoling four or five crying children and convincing them that school was actually fun.

And then there was the phase when you cried for three months because school remained closed on Saturdays and Sundays. Finally, one Saturday, we physically took you to school just to show you that it was actually closed. Only then did the crying stop.

Your love for books continued through all these years. Honestly, if there is one thing I will proudly take credit for as a mother, it is giving you the habit of reading. Rest goes to dad.

What also amazed me was your resilience while travelling. You walked endlessly with us on foreign trips without complaining. At night, when you finally hit the bed, your dad and I would quietly massage your legs so you’d feel better in the morning. You never asked us to. You just slept, exhausted and content.

I still laugh remembering moments like:

you confidently ordering dosa in Ahmedabad saying, “Excu me, ek dosa lana,” when you were barely three…

or the waiter saying “Mama mia!” in shock when you demanded fondue with absolute authority.

These memories live inside me permanently now.

I should tell you something. As I write this for you, I realise I am also writing it for myself – for the day when I am older and the details have started to blur at the edges, and I need to be reminded of the sound of your laugh at GIP Mall, or the way you looked tasting birthday cake for the first time, or the absolute conviction with which you told a crying stranger that school was going to be wonderful.

There is so much more I could not fit here. Years and years of it.

But here is what I know, and what I will always know: you gave my life a meaning it did not have before. If I were asked to choose just one title – from everything I have been and done and worked toward – I would choose being your mother. Every time. Without a moment’s hesitation.

All my love, always,

Mumma