A Fallen Star In Our Heaven


“Ma... Is Daddy a star now?”

“The brightest one amongst the billions”

“Will he ever fall?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m waiting for him to fall Ma, so I can make a wish”

“And what would it be?”

“To finish that bedtime story....”

“What was the story about?”

“About a father, who promised to come back…?”

With a broken heart and a stitched faith, she said...

“I know the story but it has a different ending”

“Please Ma... tell me the story... please”

“Look up.... What do you see?”

“Stars”

“Which one you want it to be your father...”

“Umm... the one over there....the smallest and the brightest”

“What do we do about the other stars?”

“Ask them to take a good care of daddy and never to leave him alone”

“What would happen if one day, he doesn’t shine?”

“Then I’ll chose a different one and make him my daddy”

“Will you trust him?”

“I will....”

“Will you love him?”

“Always”

“What would you do if he comes back right now?”

The little one gazed. Smaller tears had bigger dreams to believe in....Her eyes already began looking for her father but he was not there...yet.

“Where is Daddy? Where is he ma?”

“Outside”

Her feet have had wings and her faith had a sky to fly. But when she opened the front door...

“Hello Anya”

“Uncle Alex?”

She turned around with questions in her head and heart...But in that moment she saw women with a broken heart that had finally found the last piece of the puzzle. Anya understood love that day...Anya found love that day...

“.....Anya.... child...I am so sorry....”

“Ma... There is a fallen star at our door steps. I think your wish.... sorry...our wish is granted.”


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Ae Aaji

Image
                                                                                Day 1   It was her spot. The window, the little sunlight, and yesterday’s newspaper. Her chair was as old as her but still stubborn when putting pressure on. Her surroundings were quite pleasing to anyone’s eyes. The ever-burning fragrance sticks were for her  Little Lord Krishna so that he doesn’t have to breathe what we breathe. The Gold on her was minimal, with a couple of bangles on her right hand and a moonstone ring on her pinky. The spectacles and its old case almost represented her entire existence. To even imagine what all stories even her glasses would’ve wanted to tell, fascinates me.   “Aaji? Oye! Aaji”   It was her habit to never respond immediately if someone addressed her because she believed that would make her look like an idle person waiting for some attention but In her head, she was always working towards building a ladder that would end at Lord Krishna’s feet. A Stairway to heaven.   “A
Read more

Love will wait…The Muse wont.

Love has given me so much to live and to admire. Hope is where I always find and see her and for a moment, I dream…I dream about falling in love. She has wings but she doesn’t fly. I asked her ‘Why don’t you fly?’ She smiled and said ‘Come fly with me. The journey isn’t mine, it’s yours. I will help you seek the place you desire to live and die for…’ Dreams are vulnerable and they are also painful but still, we love to dream. I don’t want to be real to fall in love rather I want to be a dreamer falling in love again and again and again. “What are you?” I asked “I am your storyteller” she whispered. “I haven’t written anything yet. Words aren’t falling in love with me anymore. What can be done?” “Are you in love with me?” “I believe in you. But I’m trying to fall in love with you” “But you still haven’t felt for me the way I have felt for you. Tell me, does holding my hand give you enough faith to fall from the sky?” “Yes. But what if we never touch th
Read more

An Afternoon that lasted for 22 years

Image
It was hard for me to wake him up and ask for food. Dad coughed for nearly 15 minutes in the bathroom and when he came back, all he could do was lie down again and sleep, hoping to never wake up again. The cancer had won. He was wearing all white that day, a traditional kurta and pajama and that color was significant enough for anyone to understand that he had given up on life and his family. Skinny and bald with a fractured voice is what he gave me as memory of what a father looks and sounds like. But what about my hunger? Being a 7 year old, his appearance and his disease were least of my concern that particular afternoon. I needed the food and he needed his sleep. You don’t pat on a dying man’s back and ask for food when he’s busy brawling death.  The past has a bad habit of seducing you into the loop of memories, where its only objective is to make you feel vulnerable. That afternoon is where my father still breathes and I for one, won’t kill it.  “Papa . . .” “ . . .
Read more