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Thorns In My Quilt: Exploration Of Intricate Dynamics Of Father-Daughter Relationship

'Thorns in My Quilt: Letters from a Daughter to Her Father' is a series of letters written by a daughter to her father after he passed away. Unspoken thoughts, unshared memories and unsaid words combine in this searing and poignant account of a relationship filled with joy, but with equal moments of sorrow.

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Mohua Chinappa
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Thorns In My Quilt, By Mohua Chinappa

'Thorns in My Quilt: Letters from a Daughter to Her Father', written by Mohua Chinappa, is a series of letters written by a daughter to her father after he passed away. Unspoken thoughts, unshared memories and unsaid words combine in this searing and poignant account of a relationship filled with joy, but with equal moments of sorrow.

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An Excerpt From Thorns In My Quilt

13 August 2022 Bengaluru

Dear Baba,

I can see you sitting on a chair on my veranda. The barber has been called to cut your hair, shave
your beard, trim your nails and massage your head. You look like a little boy—in a red sweater and a
pair of track pants, feet placed firmly on the ground. As I go closer to say hello, your face twists into
a shape that is unrecognizable. You start hurling words at me, calling me names. You are spewing
hatred. I remember your face and the words so well. ‘Oshikkhito borbor,’ you screamed, ‘uneducated savage!’ I feel anger rise up in me. My first reaction is to fight back and ask you to shut up. But I am embarrassed to be shouted at in front of the barber. Your caregiver looks at me as if I am a clown. I clench my jaws and laugh, pretending it’s all a joke. They join in my little pity party. They laugh, but hesitatingly. Your eyes are full of rage. It’s like if you had the power, you would kill me with your words. I walk inside the house. I can hear the doctor telling me, ‘He is losing his mind. Dementia is setting in.’

I am ashamed of my anger towards you. I steady myself and walk towards the refrigerator. I take a slice of cheese and stuff it down my throat. The cold cheese gives me warmth. As I eat, I feel calm. I decide to go back to where you are sitting. You see me and start hurling hurtful words again. This time I don’t laugh. I stand still and say, ‘Yes, you are right about everything you say.’ You calm down and your face now no longer shows disgust. Instead, you look defeated. I watch you cry and shrink and my innards tighten. I tear up, as if cut by the shards of a broken mirror. It is so badly broken that it can no longer hold a reflection and has mixed with the gravel of time. The only remnant is the twinkle of a glass that held the reflection of a small and happy family in Shillong, many years ago. But to me, it’s like a mirage. Did it even exist?

Love, Manu

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15 October 2022 Bengaluru, Window seat at Blue Tokai Coffee Roasters

Dear Baba, When I sit down in a café, ready to write, I sometimes wonder where I learnt to write. I don’t know how it happened, but writing came to me like a lover on a lonesome journey, an arduous path through steep hills. I look at the rain-drenched streets of Bengaluru. The trees are dripping, the flaming orange flowers seemingly paying obeisance to the grey skies above. Why do I travel every time it rains to a place outside the present? I now find myself in Shillong. The rain, oh, the beautiful rains of the happy place we left behind! I don’t know why I remember those days. It may be the constant rain or the dripping umbrella opposite me. I travel back in my mind with the umbrella, onto the roads of Shillong.

The damn black ubiquitous umbrella has no idea of the emotion it draws out of me, the strength it has over my heart. I long for the days of simplicity amid the hills that had secrets and stories.

Love, Manu

Excerpted from Thorns In My Quilt, written by Mohua Chinappa; published by Rupa Publications India

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