This unsent letter was written by Musa Yeswi to his one and only daughter, Miss Jebeen(3 y/o), who died tragically during an open fire at Usman Abdullah’s funeral procession.

She prayed to God to give him at least a moment so that he would not go without knowing how much she loved him despite all their doubts, and she felt an irresistible longing to begin life with him over again so that they could say what they had left unsaid and do everything right that they had done badly in the past. But she had to give in to the intransigence of death.

The day I started letting go of you was when the idea of us was sure to exist,

in my mind, in every way.

I had to let you down;

 the sweet reality of us and the bitter reality of me never held hands.

 Funny enough, I started making the surety of us into the wounded child.

She giggled, for she was down for every possibility of us.

Wounded children never dream, for the hope of dreaming caused them a lifetime of not achieving it.

They yearn, they beg, they never let go, they never move on.

When we both nodded, you were nowhere to be seen.

That's when you let go of us.

When reality of us not existing surfaced, the wounded child yearned and begged for you.

But this time, I didn't give her what she wanted, for I have loved you enough to let you go.

Her tantrums grew; in your absence, the need for you grew.

That's how she was conditioned.

She can't see what's right in front of her, but something light years away. That explains why she loved the sky so dearly.

She ran, ran to the arms of people who wounded her.

But this time, I took her pinky and asked, “what if I stayed this time?”

The bewilderment sprung on her face.

 She looked at me as if I am a clown who jumped out of the box, shocked by my words and my clowness.

She still needed ears for her cries, so I gave her mine and the people of whom I care.

Her cries were haunting. Her wails echoed through my mind, leaving me unable to function.

She demanded to know the reason for your leaving.

You never gave any, so I had to make her many.

 Out of which bloomed anger and hatred for you.

Why did you choose to love me? Or did you ever love me?

Your fast assurance of your love for me was just your way of deluding yourself of your capability of loving another, only to realize you can't.

"Babajaana

Do you think I’m going to miss you? You are wrong. I will never miss you, because you will always be with me. You wanted me to tell you real stories, but I don’t know what is real anymore. What used to be real sounds like a silly fairy story now – the kind forever; and the living are only dead people, pretending.

Next week we were going to try and make you your own ID card. As you know, jaana, our cards are more important than we ourselves are now. That card is the most valuable thing anyone can have. It is more valuable than the most beautifully woven carpet, or the softest, warmest shawl, or the biggest garden, or all the cherries and all the walnuts from all the orchards in our Valley. Can you imagine that? My ID card number is M 108672J. You told me it was a lucky number because it has an M for Miss and a J for Jebeen. If it is, then it will bring me to you and your Ammijaan quickly. So get ready to do your homework in heaven. What sense would it make to you if I told you that there were a hundred thousand people at your funeral? You who could only count to fifty-nine? Count did I say? I meant shout – you who could only shout to fifty-nine. I hope that wherever you are you are not shouting. You must learn to talk softly, like a lady, at least sometimes. How shall I explain one hundred thousand to you? Such a huge number. Shall we try and think about it seasonally? In spring think of how many leaves there are on the trees, and how many pebbles you can see in the streams once the ice has melted. Think of how many red poppies blossom in the meadows. That should give you a rough idea of what a hundred thousand means in spring. In autumn it is as many Chinar leaves as crackled under our feet in the university campus the day I took you for a walk (and you were angry with the cat who wouldn’t trust you and refused the piece of bread you offered him. We’re all becoming a bit like that cat, jaana. We can’t trust anyone. The bread they offer us is dangerous because it turns us into slaves and fawning servants. You’d probably be angry with us all). Anyway. We were talking about a number. One hundred thousand. In winter we’ll have to think of the snowflakes falling from the sky. Remember how we used to count them? How you used to try and catch them? That many people is a hundred thousand. At your funeral the crowd covered the ground like snow. Can you picture it now? Good. And that’s only the people. I’m not going to tell you about the sloth bear that came down the mountain, the hangul that watched from the woods, the snow leopard that left its tracks in the snow and the kites that circled in the sky, supervising everything. On the whole, it was quite a spectacle. You’d have been happy, you love crowds, I know. You were always going to be a city girl. That much was clear from the beginning. Now it’s your turn. Tell me about –"

Mid-sentence he lost the race against the cold. He stopped writing, folded the letter and put it in his pocket. He never completed it, but he always carried it with him.

I love movies. They transcend us into another world, like books. And I have favorites in every genre. I find appealing pieces in every motion picture.

Recently I started living alone. Movies and books were one of the closest mates who accompanied me by loneliness. And lately I am afraid to watch and read certain genres. No, not the horror or the crime thrillers.

It's loss, suffering, heartbreak, redemption, consolation......

When watching/reading horror, it leaves you with a feeling of someone other than us being with us. But the 'empty' genre, it strips you naked and keeps you exposed.

I recommend watching this with any company. Even any animal or plant would suffice. I HAD to learn this.