1947. A Young son of 21 from rehabilitation center writes to his father- Where were you when I need your stories of glory to form my dream? Where were you when I need your thumbs for my firmness? Where were you when I imagined somebody as my father and hold his hand to go to school? You were busy making money, isnt it? What was that for...? Dad ! I do not want to lie to my life as you did. I am being honest, I need money, not you. If you have ever loved me, I need your money to isolate my loneliness that begin in your absence... An old veteran couldnt read a complete letter and kept in his pocket. Time and again he put his hand in pocket to feel the paper his son has written to him; the texture, an ink, the color; he felt his son. He was busy sensing his kin in his left pocket that was greasy, torn and smelly... That was the last sound father had heard. The sound was coming back far from the madding crowd. It sounded like a lethargic click of a crawling child but it was loud and vibrant when closer. Son in rehabilitation center is still still waiting for a reply. An incomplete story from my Old Diary~ Naresh, UAE
Posted on: Thu, 18 Dec 2014 18:47:13 +0000