The red broken crayon lies on my table, it is the last one of the pack that you brought me when I was 5. The drawing book that accompanied is filled with the colours only we could see, it holds the only childhood I knew. It has the painting of the only home I know too and your eyes look like the windows in them. Dadaji I don’t draw anymore. (That feeling when you brought me the crayons I never needed felt like home ) 

My hand does not hurt as it used to when you held it while we were crossing the road, your nails digging into my skin. I begging you to lose your grip, (my eyes almost crying for you leave my hand and you only tightening your hold.) Dadaji, I don’t leave the house anymore. (My eyes cry for the absence of your fingers now. )

You don’t pretend to be a ghost outside of my window like you used to when I was 8, the only ghosts that haunt me  now are of words laid thick on my tongue , never said and of things left undone, ghosts of the times we spent together, defeaning in this silence that you left behind, you  told me that after dying everyone becomes ghost and that one day you would become too , you would put me to sleep with a story of how when I grow up I would have to face these ghosts . I was scared of death then, I am not anymore. Dadaji I am scared of sleeping now. (That feeling of fear that one day you would not be there felt like home.) 

You taught me how to cycle everyday in the park near our old house , holding my cycle from behind and telling me that I could fly, Telling me that when You let go of that cycle I don’t need to look back because you would always be close so that I won’t fall(I never needed to search my surroundings), so that I won’t hurt.

But I am hurt now and I am looking back but in the place where you should have been standing is nothing but a vast canyon of everything I have lost, where are you when your little “beta” is calling for you? Dadaji, I go to that park every day but I don’t cycle anymore. (I search my surroundings for an escape now.)

The curtains of your room which once reflected the light of your tv, when you watched your favourite show stay dull with the darkness that your room now emits. You stopped watching that show two years ago. Somehow that one hour of the day that I spent with you also finished two years ago, I had homework now. Now we only watched tv when India had a cricket match. The curtains of your rooms now only reflect the loneliness that I carry within me as I look at your closed room, with all your medicines and clothes to keep it claimed as yours. You loved it when I wrote something in Hindi?

Dadaji, don’t worry, I haven’t stopped writing. I write so that I can live, I write so that I could breathe in all this smoke that your cremation left behind. (The feeling that your room was holding your life felt like home.)Come back ?? Hold my hand again? Buy me crayons? Take me out for breakfast? Help me finish my homework? Buy me a pen? Pick me up from my school? Take me out on my birthday? Get me gifts? Watch cricket with me? Talk to me? Stay ? Give me my childhood back? Please? No, You deserve peace now. No feelings feel like home now. The home was with you Dadiji but you are not here anymore. 




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