Who Paid for Your Dreams, Papa?
- Apr 18
- 4 min read
A long, emotional dialogue between Sameer (father) and Meher (10-year-old daughter), in their urban apartment.
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Scene:
The air conditioner hums. A white light floods the living room.
It’s late, but not too late for a child to question the truth.
Meher walks in, her tablet half-charged, her eyes full of something deeper than her age.
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Meher:
Papa, can I sit here for a bit?
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Sameer (tired, distracted, looking at phone):
Of course, Meher. But be quick. I have a call in fifteen.
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Meher:
Can I ask you something without getting a smart answer?
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Sameer (smiles weakly):
I’ll try.
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Meher:
Why did you want a life like this?
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Sameer (blinks):
What do you mean?
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Meher:
This flat. This routine. This speed.
We don’t cook together.
We don’t sit together.
We don’t laugh like my friend Aarti’s family does.
We have everything... but something’s missing, no?
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Sameer (pauses):
We wanted the best for you, Meher.
A safe home, good school, comfort.
Better than what we had.
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Meher:
But you’re always working.
Mama is always tired.
I talk more to Alexa than to both of you.
You think I don’t notice?
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Sameer (gently):
We’re trying, beta. Adult life is hard.
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Meher:
So is being a child.
But no one asks me if I’m okay.
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Sameer (his face softens):
What hurts you the most?
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Meher:
That you only listen when I cry.
Or when I score high.
Not when I’m confused.
Not when I’m quiet.
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Meher (continues):
You say you’re working for my future.
But what if you’re missing my present?
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Sameer:
We need money, Meher. Life is expensive.
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Meher:
But who made it expensive?
We had a kitchen. Now we have apps.
We had toys. Now we have gadgets.
We had grandparents. Now we have weekend calls.
What are we buying with all this money?
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Sameer (defensive):
Things to make life easier!
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Meher (quietly):
Then why is everyone so tired?
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[Pause.]
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Meher:
I don’t need a smart TV.
I need a dumb dinner — with everyone together.
No scrolling. No emails. Just roti, dal, and eye contact.
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Sameer (puts down his phone slowly):
You miss the old house, don’t you?
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Meher:
I miss the old you.
The one who told stories.
Who sat without multitasking.
Who smiled without being sarcastic.
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Sameer (softly):
I… don’t know where that version went.
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Meher:
He’s still inside you. I can tell.
He just got covered with bills, upgrades, and targets.
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Sameer:
You know, when I was your age…
I wanted to become something big.
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Meher:
You did become something big.
But it took away something small… like time.
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[Sameer looks away. The silence thickens — not cold, but honest.]
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Meher:
I’m scared, Papa.
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Sameer:
Of what?
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Meher:
That I’ll grow up like you.
Always running.
Never resting.
Always performing.
Never playing.
Always pleasing.
Never feeling.
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*[Sameer’s throat tightens. His eyes well up.]
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Sameer:
We thought we were giving you everything.
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Meher:
You were just giving me what you didn’t have.
But you forgot to give me what you did have —
Time. Slowness. Soil. Songs. Silence.
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Sameer:
You’re right.
We tried to buy peace with effort.
But it only made us poorer.
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Meher:
Can we stop trying to be perfect?
Can we just be home again?
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[He reaches out. She leans into him. For the first time in years, neither of them needs words. They just breathe — together.]
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The Price of Your Dreams” – Scene Two
Sameer and Meher sit on the floor. The light is dimmer now. Silence is no longer scary. It breathes.
---
[The door to the bedroom creaks. Anita walks out, wearing her night kurta, hair tied up, rubbing her eyes. She looks surprised to see them sitting so still — no TV, no shouting, no gadgets. Just breath. And presence.]
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Anita:
What’s going on here?
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Meher (smiles softly):
We were talking. Not just words… real talk.
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Anita (half-joking):
Did your father actually listen?
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Sameer (nodding slowly):
Yes. And I think I just met my daughter for the first time.
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[Anita walks over, sits down cross-legged beside them. She looks between Meher and Sameer, sensing the weight in the air.]
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Anita:
Is something wrong?
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Meher:
Not wrong. Just… finally seen.
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Sameer:
Meher told me how she’s paying for our dreams.
With her loneliness. With her silence.
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[Anita looks away, her eyes moistening.]
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Anita:
I always thought we were being good parents.
She has everything. What we never had.
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Meher:
But I didn’t ask for everything.
I asked for you.
Slow, present, and real.
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Anita (choked voice):
I haven’t oiled your hair in months.
You used to love that.
I thought… you outgrew it.
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Meher (softly):
I didn’t.
I just stopped asking.
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Sameer:
We turned into robots, Anita.
Running errands. Paying bills.
Staring into glowing rectangles all day.
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Anita:
Even our meals became silent.
Even birthdays became urgent.
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[A long silence. The kind where three hearts slowly return to each other.]
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Meher:
Can we cook together tomorrow?
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Anita:
Yes. Let’s start with upma and coconut chutney?
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Meher:
And let’s eat it on the floor?
Like we used to at Ajji’s house?
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Sameer:
And no phones at the table.
No TV in the background.
Just chutney, upma, and stories.
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[Meher nods. Sameer puts his arm around Anita. She rests her head on his shoulder. Meher curls up beside them.]
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[For the first time in years, they fall asleep not as a modern family, but as a home.]
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