THE FORGOTTEN CHILD

I look around, scared but curious, and find nothing. The voice doesn't stop and I fret, looking around again. Finally, I spot a mirror covered by a shawl. 

"Yes! That's it darling, I'm here," the voice corresponds, as if it had me spotted all along.

Behind the shawl, the mirror is oval and regal-looking, the enslaved one I've always imagined Snow White's step mother to possess. A tall woman reflects back at me. Her hair is ruffled, her deep set eyes are concerned rather than sad, and a rope is lying at her feet. She is infinitesimally more beautiful than me and when her lips part, her voice echoes around the hall like music. 

"Maa!" tears roll down my cheeks. I can't believe she is so close, even if she is just a reflection. "Why did you leave us, Maa? Why did you leave me?" I whisper, afraid the sound of my voice might disturb her reflection. "Look up, Dahlia. Up!" her voice gets cold, warning me about the lack of reality of the entire situation. I look up, but all I see was an incredibly shiny white light. I squint back at the mirror. But it's too late. My mother is gone. 

This is when I wake up screaming in my bedroom. Baba comes in after a while and turns on the lights to find me quietly crying, tears rolling down my cheeks uncontrollably as the last fragment of my dream leaves me.

He stands in front of the wall covered in pictures when we were a real family. On top are the ones in which my parents are getting married. In contrast to the serious-looking man beside her, my mother eyes looks straight at the camera with a spritely smile at her lips. Beneath them are photos where I am just a baby; the smile on Maa's lips is somewhat diminished and Baba looks solemn as ever. As we go down, the smile of hers diminishes as the photos progress until the last one at which her smile is non-existent. At the most recent photo of my deceased mother, I'm a child of about seven years. She looks at me, without a smile, her face more agitated than concerned as she looks at me, who's smiling ear-to-ear. 

Tonight Baba just stands there, letting me cry.

"You killed her didn't you?" The words had formed in my mouth long before I let them out. I cry some more, hating myself for voicing my thoughts, as Baba settles down on the chair beside my bed.

I still remember that day as if it was a hazy dream. It was afternoon when I woke up on my bed, but could not remember anything from the day. An aunt was talking in hushed tones to a neighbour at my bedside & that was when I learned about my mother's death. I cried the whole day, more scared of the fact I can't remember the last time I saw Maa than her death. 

When I asked, no one would tell me how she died. If I asked too much, Baba would get enraged. "Don't you remember?" he'd brusque. When I put the family photos on the wall, he was so angry he wouldn't enter my room for weeks. He hated Maa. He had killed her. It is so clear to me now.

"I did not kill her," he says. No anger. No hatred. He does not even defend himself, but sighs deeply. "I did not kill your mother, Dahlia. She ended her life herself." 

Flashes from my dream race before my eyes. I remember the rope at her feet, the way she told me to look up but I couldn't see, and the way she looked at me as if something might hurt me. Why would she kill herself? She was happy! 

Baba is looking at me the same protective way the reflection did through the mirror.  But it is too late. I wake up screaming every night, I fret at my reflection on the mirror, I can't smile the way I used to in front of a camera... Baba is ten years late in protecting me.

He finally lowers his gaze "You don't need to know. Go to sleep, you have school tomorrow." he gets up and strides toward the door. 

I look up at the ceiling for the last time as I do in every dream and a vision emerges. 

I walk into a big room painted in baby blue and very well lit.
"Maa!" I call her. "Where are you!" fear inundates me as I look around but can't find her anywhere. I locate the oval mirror at my side and unknowingly, look into it.
Her hair ruffled, her eyes inverted, my mother hung from the ceiling. Tearing my eyes from the reflection on the mirror, I looked at her for the last time. A piece of paper lied beside the upturned chair beneath her feet. 
"I cannot look at that war child anymore. You decided to keep her, you gave her a name, and you shall look after her."
She did everything meticulously. The room is tidy, her clothes are spotless, even her writing is dainty.
But she forgot to lock the door.