I burnt the onions last night.

There they were, cut really small, dancing and sizzling in hot oil. Two omelettes had already been received at the dining table with whoops of delight.

I was whipping eggs with a fork for the third, and I started to write this column in my head.

Our first born, Sahar, will be 9 this year. As I type here, she is on her way to Amritsar in a train. In a Shatabdi, which is the best kind of train in Sahar’s imagination. It’s even better than aeroplanes, Mamma, she says, fantasizing about the tetra pack juice, ketchup sachets, bread sticks and butter “chiplets”. You cannot even imagine what all else. Ice cream too.

Five teachers and 60 children on a school trip, our daughter one of the youngest in the group. When Sahar first came home with the details of the trip, the decision came instantly to me. Of course, you can go, darling. You must go.

We are travellers by nature. Born to explore. Till it was time to pack. Suddenly, I remember that Sahar is only nine years old.

Is 9 old enough?

I mean she’s really eight and a half. I wish I had known there would be no turning back, I thought. How could I not have known?

Just then, Afzal called out to say that tea was ready.

“I’m going to have a panic attack,” I said to him.

He looked at me.

I closed my eyes. Tears rolled. I thought of my Mum.

I can see that Afzal is struggling with something but he is not going to talk about it. The tea is good. I wipe my cheeks and dip biscuits.

I have given my best backpack to Sahar. I have emptied out my own toilet bag to keep her clips and her inhaler. I notice how together we are as we pack. She isn’t asking for Dora or Barbie stamped accessories. She has loads of them to choose from, but fashion is not on her mind right now. I am surprised. And impressed.

At school, the children have been shown video clips of the change of guard at Wagah border. Sahar is showing Aliza how high the soldiers raise their legs. Little Naseem laughs at their performance.

I remember the first day we had sent Sahar to playschool.

One part of me had been so wound up about it that I had taken a whole week off from work. The school was 2 minutes from home and an hour’s drive from my office.

I had reached school 40 minutes in advance to pick her up. Drawn like a magnet, I sat in the lobby, clutching my unsuccessful Sudoku and pen.

Then the children started walking out one by one, being led to the school bus waiting for them.

The teacher saw me and indicated that she would bring Sahar out soon. I was chatting with other children near me, being funny in a way that caused some of them to wrap themselves around their parent’s legs. Some to come out for a better look.

After 10 minutes of all this, Sahar appeared.

My three-year-old daughter’s face in the doorway in a group of other children. She looked at me. We yelled with joy. We hugged, and laughed and slapped each other happily.

Unnecessary happiness. That’s the term that had come to my intellectual, literary head. Why are you so happy?

Shut up, brain! my heart had replied, rather inarticulately.

Half a decade later, I have a better answer. I know the answer today. I am happy because I am ready to let her go. I am happy because she will be back. We are ready to separate, because we belong together.

I think of our child napping in her inclined seat on the train right now. Sunny fields outside her window. A little bit of me has gone with her. That bit which keeps her safe and keeps me reassured.

Amritsar is my mother’s hometown. My grandmother used to start her day with a visit to the Harmandir Sahib. By the time you read this, Sahar will have visited her own history. Imagine her at home right now, holding this paper and reading this aloud, slowly like a nine-year-old.

This is how we grow up, the children and the grown-ups.

Natasha Badhwar is a film-maker, media trainer and mother of three.

Write to Natasha at mydaughtersmum @livemint.com