It is close to midnight.


It is close to midnight. I am sitting in your room listening to random sufi songs. The low bed in your room is just the way it used to be when you would sprawl on it. There are pictures on the wall of the time when you were not even one year old, a happy beaming little one lifted above my head…I can even now feel the immense pride and joy I felt in me-my son…The room is filled with posters that you had accumulated in Cardiff-Che Guevara, Wanted Bush and Blair for War Crimes, Bob Marley, and your class XII group photo and in the inset your own…

I close my eyes. I can see you bending over your notebook scribbling on the same table where I now sit and write to you. Memories, memories…how they fill me with joy and pain, with longing. As always, there is this hope…may be you would emerge from the bathroom grinning and humming…miracles happen don’t they…

Where are you tonight? Which star is burning brighter because you have touched it? Which comet is carrying you rapidly through universes to a distant galaxy that you wish to explore? When would you surprise me, tap me on my back and say. “Dad, here I am!” How much more must I wait to see you, to touch you, to hear you?


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