I Wish You Were a Boy, Though
She was born on a Sunday morning. The rain battered the streets that day. Pappa spread the joy of the new arrival with silver-foiled laddoos from a gold-plated tray. He grinned, showing off his paan-stained teeth when she stirred under the bundle of soft cotton. He cradled her in his arms and touched her soft hair with his lips. "You have the most beautiful eyes," he whispered into her ear. "I wish you were a boy, though."
She wished to give up her long curls on a Tuesday afternoon. The heat scorched the earth that day. Pappa led her by his thick forefinger and matched his strides with her tiny steps to the little salon down the street. She let go of her thick locks for a bob cut that tickled at her ears. Pappa's eyes crinkled in the corners as he dusted the strands sticking to her shirt and shorts. He ran his hand over her round face. "You look so beautiful," he sighed. "I wish you were a boy, though."
She wanted to play cricket on a Thursday evening. The wind whistled through the trees that day. Pappa slid the key into the engine of his blue Bajaj scooter. She mounted on the backseat, swinging her legs on either side, vroomed to the sports store. She wrapped the long handle of the cricket bat with her slim fingers and took a swing, mimicking Pappa's cricket icon as she had seen on TV. Pappa chuckled. He threw a ball and watched in awe as she used her wrist to meet it. "You are a natural," he raised his brows. "I wish you were a boy, though."
She graduated with honors from the university on a Friday morning. The sun left a golden halo on the arena that day. Pappa walked the red carpet, his head held high, with pride that glistened in his eyes. She ducked her head to wear the ribbon with a round medal and wrapped her fingers around the degree scroll. Pappa's eyes moistened. He sniffed as he read through the scroll. "I am so proud of you," he took her into his arms. "I wish you were a boy, though."
She yearned to have the honor of lighting the pyre that Sunday night. The cold breeze cut through her jacket that hour. Pappa's smile was permanently etched on his lips. He lay still inside the ice box. She tiptoed to one side and rubbed the surface, hoping to wake him up. She wished she knew how to make him proud. The moment had come to bid him goodbye when the young nephew crouched to pick up the holy torch. She staggered to her feet and could hear Pappa whisper the words she had heard all her life for one last time, "I wish you were a boy, though."
She wished to give up her long curls on a Tuesday afternoon. The heat scorched the earth that day. Pappa led her by his thick forefinger and matched his strides with her tiny steps to the little salon down the street. She let go of her thick locks for a bob cut that tickled at her ears. Pappa's eyes crinkled in the corners as he dusted the strands sticking to her shirt and shorts. He ran his hand over her round face. "You look so beautiful," he sighed. "I wish you were a boy, though."
She wanted to play cricket on a Thursday evening. The wind whistled through the trees that day. Pappa slid the key into the engine of his blue Bajaj scooter. She mounted on the backseat, swinging her legs on either side, vroomed to the sports store. She wrapped the long handle of the cricket bat with her slim fingers and took a swing, mimicking Pappa's cricket icon as she had seen on TV. Pappa chuckled. He threw a ball and watched in awe as she used her wrist to meet it. "You are a natural," he raised his brows. "I wish you were a boy, though."
She graduated with honors from the university on a Friday morning. The sun left a golden halo on the arena that day. Pappa walked the red carpet, his head held high, with pride that glistened in his eyes. She ducked her head to wear the ribbon with a round medal and wrapped her fingers around the degree scroll. Pappa's eyes moistened. He sniffed as he read through the scroll. "I am so proud of you," he took her into his arms. "I wish you were a boy, though."
She yearned to have the honor of lighting the pyre that Sunday night. The cold breeze cut through her jacket that hour. Pappa's smile was permanently etched on his lips. He lay still inside the ice box. She tiptoed to one side and rubbed the surface, hoping to wake him up. She wished she knew how to make him proud. The moment had come to bid him goodbye when the young nephew crouched to pick up the holy torch. She staggered to her feet and could hear Pappa whisper the words she had heard all her life for one last time, "I wish you were a boy, though."
January / February 2023
Sudha Subramanian is a writer of Indian origin living in Dubai. Her short stories and articles have found space in newspapers, magazines and anthologies. When Sudha is not writing, she sings to plants, hugs trees and watches the birds, bees, butterflies that visit her garden. Find her on Twitter @sudhasubraman and on Instagram @sudha_subraman.
Art: AI generated by DALL·E