Off The Cuff: My friend Vish, and the girl he longs for

Last week, a wonderfully refreshing gust of hope swept me up, and I have been airborne ever since. I write this piece from a cloud of comfort; a cloud that I can only pray will accumulate in such magnificent mass that, when it dissipates, the hope that rains down will be sufficient to drench a billion people with its blessings; and wash away the guilt and embarrassment some of us have experienced over those hated words: female foeticide. Whence this hope? Let me tell you.

My young friend Vish, who stands on the threshold of marriage, is off home, possibly to get a first glimpse of his bride-to-be and a last glance at his days of bachelorhood.

Now, there's nothing profound about that, I admit. Vish's name may be a meaningless statistic in the world register of marriages; other young men have left their singleness behind, one way or another.

Some have gone willingly, others have been dragged away kicking and screaming. But when a young Indian man says, "when I have children I would like to have girls", that's when the winds of hope start blowing.

He didn't mention the fact that he'd need a son to carry on the family name. He didn't mention that other dreaded word "dowry". All he wanted was a daughter. That's when I flew away on the wings of great expectation. I remembered another father and daughter.

Narayan, who tilled the little sugar cane plantation, and Savitri. Narayan, who made the most refreshing buttermilk. On a hot Tamil Nadu day, you could sit in the open fields, sip buttermilk and not entertain a single thought of sunblock.

Narayan, the single parent, whose wife had died in childbirth. Narayan, the humble. It took two years before I discovered that he actually owned the land he tilled and was not just a hired hand.

Narayan talked little about himself, but Savitri was his sun and moon and stars. His universe. Savitri didn't attend school. A lady teacher stopped by every evening to give her lessons. But that was not because Narayan wished to make a statement of village affluence. Far from it. No, the real reason was something else. I'll illustrate it through the following incident.

One day, as Narayan and I returned from the shandy, which is a large open bazaar, riding our weighted down bicycles past the thorny scrub that screened his house, we were greeted by a chorus of girlish laughter.

Narayan braked, put one foot on the ground and said with a smile, they're playing Beauty Queen, stay, if they see us they will get shy and run away. So we peered like voyeurs through the bushes at these seven or eight teenaged girls as they rushed in and out the door clad in something different each time.

They sashayed, postured, giggled, screamed with delight and finally, after many such rounds, placed a little golden paper crown on Savitri's head. She's the winner today, said Narayan, with a proud grin.

Next time, they'll make her the winner again. Then he turned to me and with a look of longing said, how I wish just for once she could see the admiration on the faces of her friends.

Narayan was a great father. I'm told he died with his daughter's name on his lips. Savitri by then had married the teacher's son and borne him two healthy, keen-eyed children. No dowry exchanged hands.

And now, there's my good friend Vish… . May God bless you with a line of happy girls. May your sentiments be echoed by other young men of my country. It will, in some small way, compensate for the thousands of unborn female dead, who had their legitimate right cruelly snatched away; the right to assert their voices and take their destined places in an emerging India.