An year ago, today, you were alive, and breathing, though slowly, with efforts, but breathing.
Dadaji was in a hospital, and the doctors had said, "It's pretty serious this time."
And I hadn't believed them then, because losing someone like Dadaji, was just way too tragic to be true. I mean come on! Nature, God, any other super natural power would've thought a zillion times to take life away from such a pure soul, and they would've decided to leave him happy and healthy in any case.
But the doctors had a different perspective.
So they asked us to book train tickets before it was too late. We were taking our time here, paying bills, screaming at the guy next door for playing too loud music, staring at the wall, being lazy.
The next morning, Mumma's phone vibrated to life, it was Papa, he told her to pack our bags, Dadaji was gone.
I didn't believe at first, but then the truth hit hard, laughing in my face, later it sank in the ocean of my tears. I cried and cried and cried.
Not because Dadaji was gone, but because I couldn't remember the last time I'd spoken to him properly, and not in a hurry to catch a metro; to meet a friend; to attend the door. Because I couldn't remember the time when I'd visited him at his place, seen him healthy. Because I couldn't book a train ticket just in time for him to see me, one last time.
Now all that I am left with, are 'what ifs' and regrets.
And Dadaji, I bet you're seeing me now, I wonder if you're smirking with a "You deserve this suffering!" or if your thoughts and tears are also in line with mine.
I wish I could know.
Also, miss me often? (I miss you more-more often).
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