Dear anyone reading this,
I can't write anymore, I can't. I never understood till now that writing, expressing is a privilege I am denied.
When you have one parent to rely on, they kind of become your family, just like my father and me, my house has every comfort one could require in a home, but for me it ceased to be my home.
Every morning when I wake up in the morning, and descend slowly towards the hall, I feel like my mind is taking a journey through past, a past of 2 months ago, I stare at the the entrance and wish I could hear the sound of the door opening with a particular sound, I yearn to hear the annoying sound from watching bengali daily soap, even now out of habit at night I go to his room to feel the smell of desolation hitting me back to reality, all the things I perceived so normal was snatched away from me like the way the womb is separated from a mother's womb, and the blood was already there, and with his death it has been dried, and pool of regret is all I breath these days.
'Switzerland, I want to go to switzerland', One day I asked my father which foreign country he wants to go, I thought and at that moment disdained the triviality of his wishes and yet in heart promised to myself, ''one day, one day...''
When I used to read or watch movies, I imagined the kind of reaction he will have at each milestone of my life.I lost my mother at a young age, and never got to share my boards result, my first day of college, first heartbreak, hugging my mother tightly amidst illness, I thought to be happy on the other side of the circle. It doesn't matter if my moon is mangled, cut in half but it was still a moon, where I could sleep without any worry.
For days after his death, the first question I had everyday was ' I can't believe he is never going to come home, I can't believe nobody is going to come in evening to ask what I will eat or call me when I have not still reached home from college, or when I went to my friend's place and forgotten to call him, I can't believe my childrens are never going to know my father and mother, and they have to know them through my blurred, fragmented and unreliable memory concealed under years of dust,'
I don't want to say this to anyone, that time heals everything, no it doesn't, time only takes away, smells,memories, presence, his things, his soap, his dirty collars,his toothbrush, his used bedcover, his existence and it only leaves leftovers to chew on.
What is the use of doing anything, if they could never see me, what is the point of building a home if my first homes are forever lost with earth,and water and ashes.
The other day at the bank the manager asked me about the health of my mother after he saw that I came to break my fd with my father, I could not reply, and a sudden sob like waves drowned my voice and I am ashamed of my tears, I am ashamed how stubborn they are that they still are ceaselessly bursting when there is no ocean of pain left in me.
I wish there was an option to burn this, I would have then.
This life feels like a punishment, and my father didn't deserve this, and this is why I guess I will always be angry.
Peace, I won't find and is not eager to look, pain and peace co-exist sometimes.
Love, I can never love any person, to love is to hope, to hope is to depend, to depend is to die.