Rigor Mortis. Have heard that term a lot in the course of my profession. More on that later. But for now, I can feel it, smell it. Holding bits of what used to be a daughter. What daughter? This? Or that? What piece? I did not father this shriveled mass of torn flesh! This smelling corpse. Maggot ridden eyes. One missing arm. This is no child of mine.

Wait. Let me compose my thoughts properly. I have a dead child to cremate. Please forgive me for my stray and scattered thoughts. First the questions. Lots of them. Different voices, all from different corners of memories, screaming back. Was it me? Something I did? Something I did not do? Something I chose not to do? Could I have stopped it years ago? Or now, maybe? Did I choose not to hear something she said? Was I deaf? Was I blind? What? WHY?

If you have ever wondered if the pain of losing a child is equal to the happiness of becoming a father, you are wrong. Add to that happiness, the joy of seeing her take her first step, spell her first vowel, speak her first word, chew her first morsel. Add to that the ecstasy of watching her soar, on the wings of innocence, dreams, ambition, love, success… Add to that the secret satisfaction of being her confidante, of being able to share that first heartbreak, of being the one to give her away in marriage to a deserving partner. Add to that the anxiety of sleepless nights even before she was born, and the sleepless nights after she was born. Add to that the memories of the diaper changing session, shopping for a pram, a large cot, decorating the nursery, choosing a name, bringing her home for the first time. And you still haven’t come close to the pain of losing a child.

I am sorry, I strayed again. So here we are. The stench of the morgue. And a daughter’s torn limbs. Not all of them though. An arm is missing. There are papers to sign. People to call. A funeral to arrange. And a letter to read. A letter that she left me. A letter to live my life with, whatever is left of my life. A letter that will answer my questions, maybe. Or raise a few I hadn’t thought of. A letter I feel the urgent and angry need to read. A letter that has raised in me a storm of fear, despair and frustration, even before I have seen it.

But before that I have some thoughts to share. Some thoughts to ponder over before I read that dreaded letter, rummage through her last few thoughts, trying to hear my name in her dying words, search for an answer to a question I don’t know. Is it less cruel a blow of fate to lose your child in an accident? Does it soften the blow to know that she had wanted to live, but life had other plans? That you did not fail her, destiny did? Does it matter why and how your child died? Does it hurt less to not have fingers pointed towards you? Does it make a difference to not hear whispers behind your back: she was insane, childhood trauma, bad parenting, depression, illness, bad marriage, illicit love affair? Do those whispers reach you? Or what echoes in your head is the last scream she must have let out? A scream of life-ending agony, hopelessness strong enough to make her end her life? Where did her arm go? Why haven’t they found it? Did they even look for it?

I am sorry. Yes, the letter. I did not realize that I was holding it so tightly that I crumpled it. I don’t have the heart to open it yet. Please don’t think I am an indifferent father. I have just lost a daughter and it does not matter why. The “how” is heartless enough. A speeding train. Maybe her arm is stuck in the train. Or smashed into a million pieces, impossible to gather. Not that the rest of her body must have been easy. I hate the way I am being factual about this. But that’s the truth now. When you become a parent, the child just takes over your life. Your day begins and ends with hers. You plan around her sleep time, eat time, play time. Barely can she walk that you start planning her education. In her tweens you have a hard time sleeping, staying awake, worrying about her future. What future? This? For all that love, for all that pain, she has left behind a few pieces of her flesh and a letter. Is that all she owed me, for giving her my life? I loved her mother a little lesser the day she was born, and I loved her no less than anyone else I had loved. All for this letter?

Am I angry? Yes. More so because I cannot voice it. I cannot scold her, ground her, send her to her room. I cannot tell her that she has let me down. Or is it the other way round? Is it going to change anything, this letter? She wrapped it in a polythene and kept it in a bag she was carrying. The polythene was to protect it from being stained by her blood. She left her address, her phone numbers, her husband’s mobile number. On the envelope, just two words – For Dad.