Achan

I ve wanted to write something for a long time. But couldnt convert my thoughts into words. I wanted to write about my father. What could I write about him? I dont have a clue at this point of time. Its a personal sorrow, nobody else would be bothered. They would ask " oh you lost your father ...how sad". Yes, I lost my father and i am not sad for him. I am sad for myself. When I sit alone in a corner of my room here, thoughts haunt me. ..how he was always there for me, how he was a pillar of strength. I just needed him to be there and I would have braved every sea of trouble.

But he is gone, and I am alone.

There is this interesting incident in my childhood. I dont remember when it happened or where . My father and I were walking fast through a crowded place, probably a railway station. I clung to his hand and tightly. But a wave of people came and separated us. I was terrified for a moment but soon found a hand like my father's and ran to it and clung on. We walked a few steps and suddenly I looked up. I remember the shock that I had. It was not my father. It was somebody else!. I was very young and memories of those days come to me as jigsaw puzzles ...several frames of pictures without connectivity. The important events are stored as snapshots. I dont remember how I got back to my father, the next picture that I have is of him waiting for me at a corner where my rescuer handed me over to him.

Funny that I ve never asked my mom or dad about this incident... inspite of being an overly curious kid. It may because there are so many unanswered questions in my mind regarding the snapshots of childhood memory.

But now... I feel that he s been separated from me again and this time I am not sure whether he ll wait for me at the top of the stairs with a smile in his face. I dont want to look up and see that the hand that I am clinging to now is a child of my imagination. Be there with me acha... always.