Mr Narayan handed to me a brown weathered dossier and I took it with quivering hands. I opened it with eager anticipation.

My pursuit had just begun.

This journey of mine which had seemed like a thousand miles had begun with a single step. It had given me a new hope and a new life. To me hope was like the sun, which, as I journeyed towards it casted the shadow of my burden behind me. Going by my past journey, I didn't know where life would take me, what twists and turns would happen, nobody knows where I would end up. As my life changed direction, I shall flow with it.

Though the road had been rocky so far, it sure felt good to me.

I traced the letters of my father's name with my fingertips. The name Pratap Amar Singh struck a chord deep in the echelons of my heart. I looked at it with awe and love.

My eyes fell on a black and white grainy photograph. I looked at it and the face looked handsome and imposing. I closed my eyes and my mind took me back to the time and place where the haunting strains of a lullaby resonated. I tried to give the face to the person who had been singing the lullaby to me in my dreams. My father finally had a face.

I sifted through the file.

My eyes fell upon a clipping of newspaper yellowed with time titled eulogy and my eyes misted.

"Mr Pratap Amar Singh is a dauntless journalist with a penetrating foresight. In his pursuit of truth, he has always been adamant and has shown perseverance and resolute determination. The spirit of revolution is always burning bright in his writing. He is a prolific writer as shown in his in his writings. Inspired by the teachings of Swami Vivekananda and Lala Lajpat Rai, he has fired the cannon of radical thinking in this small town of Kasauli. In the dark times during the partition, he tried to light the torch amongst the masses. He died as a fighter and will always be a beacon of hope and courage for all of us."

These lines had been delivered by his family friend, Mr Rajesh Kumar at the memorial service held in the Town Hall to mourn the passing of Mr and Mrs Singh who had been survived by their only daughter, Jasmine, whose whereabouts were unknown.

                                                                                                                      - Darien Lobo

The feeling of pride surged through my veins.

I am a chip off the old block.

The Sisters had always said that Jasmine was adamant and relentless. I had got these traits from my father. The unfamiliar, the unknown hero of my childhood had now become a reality.

Uncle Raj not only made sure that I was alive but also kept the image of my parents alive in this town with his beautiful words.

I turned to the next page and scanned its contents.

As my eyes fell on the words address of native place, the icy claws that had firmly gripped my dejected and lonely heart had now started to loosen their hold. I felt hope stir in my heart. It was not the end of road. The address read as:

   Vaikunth Niwas,

   Ranikhet Estate,

    Shimla-48.

I now had an address to go to, a family to call my own. I was not a destitute who had been cast aside. I had an identity and now I only had to find and give my name to it.

I turned towards Mr Narayan with a look of immense gratitude and said to him "Uncle, thank you! You have given me a new lease of life. All these years, I had been groping in the dark and my parents were faint shadows in my dreams which I used to colour and put life into according to my fancy. But now I can proudly proclaim myself to be the daughter of Pratap Amar Singh, the dauntless journalist of Kasauli. I finally belong somewhere."

Tears were falling down my cheeks.

I said to Mr Narayan "Uncle, can I ask you for another favour?"

"What is it? Don't hesitate. I feel that Pratap would be smiling in heavens today. He would be feeling proud to see that his little baby had grown up to be a woman of substance as dauntless as him. We, at the Dainik Jagran, had always idolised Pratap and would do anything for you. We are so delighted to see you. We tried to trace you and find about your whereabouts. But in the chaos of the partition, we always came to a dead end as all the records had been destroyed and the sisters looking after the orphanage had left the country."

"Uncle, can I have this dossier? It is the only remembrance that I have of my family."

"Yes child! Take it. It belongs to you."

I held the dossier as if I had been given the moon. My joy knew no bounds. I wanted to sing and dance today and be a young, carefree daddy's girl without an iota of sorrow. I was happy.

I smiled at him and thanked him profusely.

I turned to leave.

But he caught me by my arm and stopped me.

"Dear, I have something else for you too."

"Uncle, you have become my Santa Claus and today is my Christmas Eve."

He took out a box and handed it to me. I looked at it in great anticipation and eagerly opened it. Inside carefully wrapped in paper was a picture frame.

"This frame used to be on your father's table always,'' he said.

I was speechless.

The picture had my father looking dapper in a tuxedo. He looked dashing and beside him was a beautiful woman with cerulean eyes and an angelic face. Dressed in a gown, she looked ethereal. Now I understood why I everyone in the town was calling me Rosalie. It was like looking at my own doppelganger.

I looked at Mr Narayan questioningly, "This is my mother!"

"The angelic lady is none other than your mother. She was the belle of Kasauli, the fashionista who set the rules for others to follow. No one could surpass her finesse and she was a connoisseur of all fine things of life. The same blue eyes, black hair, and ivory complexion. You are indeed Rosalie's girl!" He said.

I looked at my mother, the angel of my dreams.

"You always came to me in in my dreams. But I did not recognise you. I remember your blue eyes as clear and deep as sky and your loving soft lap .But I could not draw a face on you. I know you were looking at me, watching me as my guardian angel. Only I did not recognise you."

Mr Narayan was not done with me.

"Do you know who the cherubic girl in Rosalie's arms is? She is so chubby and cute, a little doll. She always used to be asking for a chocky all the time and your father used to make sure that she was never refused."

"What chocky? "I asked him.

Mr Narayan took out a box of my favourite Cadburys.

I was speechless and hugged him tightly. Tears flowed down my eyes copiously as if a dam had broken inside me. Years of pent up emotions and feelings were coming to fore. He understood and did not mind the mess I had created.

"Be brave and strong and make your parents proud. You have done well so far. Be the daughter of Pratap Amar Singh and Rosalie Watson!"

I put my final question to him.

"Uncle, do you have any idea or knowledge of my father's family at his native place in Shimla?"

It was my last straw of hope. I looked at him in keen expectation.

But he shook his head in vain.

"No dear, no one knows here. Pratap never discussed his family and we never saw any of his relatives, not even when he passed away. But your parents did not need anyone for they truly loved each other."

I hugged him again in gratitude and took his leave.

I had come empty-handed and was leaving with a treasure-trove.

I again came to the half burnt house that was once my home.

I plucked a few jasmine flowers and promised to myself that I will go home one day.

The love of my parents would find its place even they were not around to see it.

"I will do it for you, mummy and daddy!" I said out aloud.

The mountain wind seemed to carry my voice far as if to make my parents happy.

The house no longer seemed desolate.

Tiny birds sang merrily and beautiful butterflies danced on the wild blooming flowers.

The wild lichens and grasses did not make it eerie but seemed to be giving it life.

I will give my parent's love an abode.

With this promise to myself, I boarded my bus back to Delhi.

A/n: Also check out my group titled, "Rambling Brooks"!