I took the old withered notebook out of my rack. Flipping through the pages aimlessly I plucked a photograph from inside.
On the left stood this pleasantly looking confident lady… She was draped in a navy blue silk sari with broad pink boarder. Her long hair plated very neatly. Her forehead prided a red bright vermillion bindi. Holding her hands was a little girl in a white frock. Short cropped hair confirmed a snobbish look on her face, purposefully looking stubborn. Her other hand was held by this tall smart man. His rugged handsome look would make you fall weak on your knees. The moustache set perfectly between his nose and upper lip, giving him that perfect manly look. His fashionably dog collared shirt, bell bottoms trousers rightly ironed to match his polished boots. He wore a conceited look of pride.
There I stood for long, eyes resting on the photograph. Kanchenjunga, colored in faint streaks of the rising sun, added a heavenly set up to the moment. It’s been 18 years now. Tiger hill sun rise point I recalled.
When I turned the photograph, it read a few lines scribbled by my dad with his favorite fountain pen. I felt his handwriting – the familiar curves, commas and stops. It said:
The son and the moon,
And the blanket of the sky.
My little one and the Mother,
How lucky was I.
My lips curved into smiles. I read again and again and again. My eyes were fixed on those lines. The smile couldn’t be faked for long. The eyes soon gave the tears away. All these days I had wept – in moment of joy, sorrow, achievement and losses. I missed him more each day. The feeling is still sinking in – I have lost my father forever. But never did I realize what Dad had to let go off…
His whole universe behind. Us.