The child inside me has died, I know because I no longer count the colours of a rainbow or wish for a purple sunshine. I know because I cry listening to Moushumi Bhowmik's songs and the lyrics haunt my evenings. I know the child is dead, because I read only novels and ignore short stories and I floss my teeth at night.

I know she is dead because the urge to relax and get away creeps up more and more everyday. I do not feel vengeful, jealous or angry, and I forget quickly even when I do. I search for songs from childhood, from my parents' mixed tapes, they soothe me like prayers. I finally understand the meaning of each and not just the feeling it created once.

I don't fall in love with love songs; I don't dance when no one is watching. I don't buy things to make me look pretty; when I do buy things they are to keep me warm, to make me feel comfortable. I wear my sari more securely, I carry bottles of mineral water to keep me hydrated during the day, and a bottle of painkillers. In the mornings, I watch other women on the streets rushing to work, scattered and tensed, I feel their nervous energy. I can vividly imagine their mornings, hectic and unsatisfying, a series of chores leading up to more.

The child inside is gone, I know because the once-worshipped ones have fallen from their pedestals, they seem empty, attention-hungry -- mere performers. I know she is gone because I cannot relate to as many people as I used to, I know there are many definitions of laughter but only one for tears.

She is no longer there, I know because she found little things more fascinating than I do. Like when I check into domestic flights run by Bangladeshi private airlines, how the woman at the check-in counter screams “5 F, Female” announcing to her colleagues that she has put a woman travelling alone in that seat and hence I need to be paired with another woman. An unordered service that is somehow part of the airlines protocol. I find that normal, and not funny, not cute, it doesn't even make me wonder if this is some form of discrimination.

I realised the child was not there when I visited the ocean last. There was almost no one in sight. Just me and a few children of the coast with unbrushed teeth and sleep-covered eyes. I was sitting on the sand watching the waves and an hour went by, yet I felt no urge to dip my feet in the water, I felt no urge to snap a picture. I knew I would remember this anyway, and I would see the ocean again many more times. And there were many days left in this world, and if there wasn't so be it.

I have been wondering exactly when the child died and how. I have wondering if she is still alive, maybe in a coma? Or has she just gone missing, left me and stepped out to find another home. If that is the case, and she is out there and any of you find her, will you please ask her to come back, I have a few bones to pick with her, a few things she has broken which she needs to mend. She wears a smile on her face matching her white sundress and she hasn't learnt yet how to speak. Don't ask her for her address, just send her towards the south, I will be waiting for her, right where I lost her, on the wet sand by the beach.