I lay on my father’s cot yesterday and looked up at the roof. I remembered my father lying there many nights, especially the difficult nights when he could not sleep and when memories of a beautiful life that he lived with my mother haunted him. These painful memories he learnt to live with, but these metamorphosed into fear and insecurity during the long nights that he could not sleep. Not all nights were bad, I think. Probably they were and he did not tell me, there were the nights when he could not handle it. He woke up hoary eyed, a sadness hung over his eyes as he went about his morning routine of brushing his teeth, drinking tea, those days he skipped his morning walks. I would ask him to go for a walk, but he stubbornly refused. Thinking back now, I regret that I had not done my best to help him. For instance, I could have gone for a walk with him, stayed up a few nights with him and shared a hot mug of Horlicks; I could have done a million things to make him feel that he was not locked out alone from humanity. I do not want to think of all that I have done for him, but of all that I could have done for him. He might not have lived a day longer, but I certainly owe him thousand fold more than what I gave.
