#arundhatiroy

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.

"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.