Tears Of A Father

Staring at the resplendent starry sky; wondering, I sit on the terrace with a notebook and pen. In spite of myriad stars up there, I’ve been gazing at a seemingly dim one while others keep blurring in front of my eyes. I see myself in that dim star among millions of brighter ones. Neither am I a professional writer nor a thinker. I am an old father broken down by time and situations, sitting here contemplating the night sky for answers.

I’ve decided to first write the questions on my notebook and then find their answers.

I write my first question “who am I now ?” My son has died. He was martyred while battling against terrorists. The last day was his funeral ceremony. So after the death of a child what are parents to be called?

Suddenly a gust of wind gives me goosebumps and I see a tree from terrace, from which all leaves have fallen but still we call it, a Tree.

 “I'll always be a father.” I write.

There is a belief that people become stars after death. Today, I believe.

My misty eyes are glittering when I look up at the most dazzling star, and I can feel the beauty of the sky because of this star.

But the mind has not been sticking with my heart for a long time and brings a new question.

“Am I a good father?”

 An image of my son, when I took him first time into my arms, flashes in my mind. That was a moment when a man felt tears for becoming a father. I kissed on his forehead incessantly. I taught him to walk by himself and to speak “Papa”. But he spoke his first-word “ma”.

 Mind is doing it’s work and digging out his past memories. Once I called him up, when he was in sainik school.

“Hello! How are you, my son?”, I said.

“Fine, where is ma?” he replied,

“Do you not have any problem there?” I asked

“No, where is ma, Dad?” he retorted,

“I will come soon to meet you, my son.” I told

“What about ma, Will she not come?” he asked again.

I sigh and I realize, the dazzling star is the nearest from Moon though it’s far apart from dim one. He never shared his feelings with me because I was his father. When he died, I didn’t cry. His mother did. But a father couldn’t. People appreciated me for being strong as a father of a soldier. But I cursed myself for being a father. Because I wanted to cry loudly and kiss his forehead like that time when he was born.

“Why shouldn't a father cry?” I write.

Suddenly, A drop of tear drops on to the paper from my eyes and I am bursting into tears for my beloved son.