Dear Meera,
You won’t remember it — how could you? But I hope someday you’ll read this and feel it.
You were barely minutes old, still learning to breathe air. I stood there, frozen, watching the nurses clean you up, and I whispered your name under my breath like a prayer: Meera.
I had waited months to meet you, dreamt about this exact moment. But nothing — absolutely nothing — could have prepared me for how it felt to finally hold you.
When they placed you in my arms, something inside me cracked open. I looked at your face — eyes closed, fists curled, your tiny mouth moving like you were already trying to speak to me. And I broke down.
Tears rolled down before I could stop them. I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t scared. I was just… completely overwhelmed by love. A kind of love I didn’t know I was capable of. It was raw, full-bodied, and it shook me.
You were warm and small and perfect, and I remember thinking: This is what forever feels like.
In that moment, nothing else mattered — not the hospital lights, not the noise, not even the rest of the world. Just you and me. A papa and his daughter. You, so new to life. Me, so new to being your father.
I wish I could have frozen time — to stay in that feeling a little longer, to memorize the weight of you in my arms, the smell of your head, the sound of your first little cry.
You made me a father, Meera. And that will always be the most sacred gift I’ve ever received.
I love you — more than words, more than breath, more than anything.
#babaAniMeera
Love always,
Baba