So Long Dad...

Nightmares, that's how people would refer to unwanted and dreaded dreams. 20th June 2007, was one morning when I woke up just to find one of my most dreaded nightmares coming true. Churning up deep inside with me were the things which I think I would say to my Dad when he comes out of the ICU or in that case, comes back to Lucknow. Now, he never will.

This happens to be my final tribute to him and perhaps for the last time people are going to see my name on the chic pages of HT We. Perhaps some things never come back. Neither would he, nor I. I have been dreaming too long knowing that he had laid a path ahead for me. There sleeps the man, all in white, who filled colours into my life many a times. For once he wasn't sleeping in some cozy bed; instead he was in the chilling freezer of a mortuary.

Ever since he went far away, I have seen people walking up to me and telling me that I can do it and ultimately the difference between the past and present will fade away. I wonder whether it can.

His coffin on his way back to his home read "Human Remains of LATE Mr. A.K.Singh", that's where the difference is my dear people. The word LATE preceded his name and now it is going to haunt me through out my life.

Being the eldest son, I am expected to carry forward the legacy and I wasn't even allowed to cry. I just sat there holding the dead hands of my dad while he lay there straight without any movements.

Things flashed by and the lifeless hands were the most painful things ever because these used to be my pillar of strength and a lot more. I might have held his finger with my hands ages back when he was teaching me to walk on his and now he himself needed four shoulders.

He never preferred shortcuts. But somehow, one of his last wishes was about his cremation which he wanted to be by the electric furnace. We put him at the tip of the furnace, he didn't move. I put the pieces burning camphor up his chest, neck and other parts, he didn't react. Finally I pushed him in the furnace and switched it 'On'. I burnt my own father. Despite of the fact that nothing meant more to me than his gentle kiss on the forehead for every good literary work or a good deed.

I hear the words echoing deep inside me which remind me of the tricks he wanted to teach me and every time I would walk up to him and tell him that I wonder whether he has me. He always told me to sleep till I am fresh enough because once I am awake I have got to face the blues. I have been fooling around with my funny dreams but I have to aim higher because he wanted me to.

For once I started envying those people who have got Fathers. This Fathers' Day when everyone was busy celebrating the day, I was praying that some more days be added to my father's life but things didn't work out. I have lost my friend philosopher, guide and my Santa. Coincidentally, I started with HT writing about the Real Life Santas and putting full stop to my journey with HT We writing about my Santa.

Here is me and the wishing wells are drying up. The lands are parched and there is no hope. Open windows, let the rain come in. You feel alone and you have got no one to blame, say it to me. The temple bells still chime, and this is me the little boy who is left in his little world.

Seems like time gets lost in space. So, you know, how far you'll be.

-Piyush Singh

PS: This article appeared in the paper in the year 2007 and ever since then, I am often reminded of the people I have met and things they have said. I would like to thank Trinity, wherever she is and ofcourse Sera who lead me through this entire ordeal without letting me break down.

Teri Aankhein ...

Long time ago, a brilliant musician from down south approached me with a very ambitious plan. At first, the plan didn't seem feasible but by the sheer energy that he had put in while he explained the idea to me, I decided to give it a shot. The musician was none other than Ifthikar Ali and he approached me to be one of the lyricists for his album Patchwork which featured artists from all over the globe.

There was something so special about how he convinced me to work on a project like this with him and I loved being a part of the whole process. A lot of people have been writing to me to share the song or for the lyrics so I decided to put it up here on my blog for one and all to hear.

Listen to the song here:

Why the song is called Teri Aankhein? Simply because the dummy tune I received had a hook line Teri Aankhein and it was quite difficult for me to ignore it because it did fit in beautifully. I went against the brief and finished it and this is what the outcome is. 

As a part of Patchwork, Teri Aankhein was the first song I wrote and there were quite a lot of different versions of the same song in between, but this version featuring Chordrush remains to be my favourite.

The lyrics are as follows:

Kitni sadiyan, hain beeti

baatein teri, woh suni si

Har pal mein, basi khamoshi

Aur aankhen teri, yeh jhuki si

Teri aankhen, maula

bechain kare yun mujhe

Teri aankhen, allah

kho jaaon kahin inme

Teri palko ke saaye mein

base khwab jo hamne dekhe

Teri aankhen jaise koi daastaan

jaise nadiya koi hain chhalke

Ruk ke dekho to ek baar tum

teri aankhon mein janaat meri

Koi apsara koi hoor

ki baat hi HAIN kya

Jo maine dhoondha to haseen

tum sa nahi

Jo kuch hain mere armaan

mehke hain tum hi tum se

Door tumse ho kar bhi

teri aankhon se door

Main jaaoon bhi to, jaaoon

kahin bhi nahi...

With love:

Piyush Abhay Singh
- www.piyushabhaysingh.com

The Dark Side - Short Story

The phone was ringing. She looked at the display. ‘Javed Calling’, it showed. She looked at the clock which was close to strike 9:30 pm. With utmost reluctance, she picked up the phone and held it in her hands for good ten seconds as she continued to put lip stick on her pretty lips admiring herself as the beauty that she was.  Soon enough, she forgot totally about the phone that was still in her hands, getting louder with each passing second.

The phone went silent after its failed attempt to get even the half of Rashmi’s attention. She was about to wipe off the lipstick that she had just put on her lips. She seemed unsure and then was lost again into the eyes of the familiar face in the mirror. The phone started ringing. Javed seemed to have called at the right moment now to get her attention.

 She picked up reluctantly and without any formalities in a cold tone, uttered, “Yes. What now?”

Javed on the other hand sounded like as if God had answered all his prayers just to avoid him from getting angry. He asked in a loud tone, “Why didn’t you answer my call for the first time?”

All she said was- “Lower your voice, you bastard.”

Javed was taken aback and realized that anger just won’t work. With a tinge of a giggle, he said, “You bitch”.

Something in Javed’s tone made her smile too. She asked, in a more polite manner, “Why have you called? What is it?”

“I have called for work”, Javed mentioned with utmost professionalism.

“Haven’t I told you a million times that I don’t work after 9.” she stated as a matter of fact as she continued to wipe that lipstick from the side of her lips.

Javed was convinced that he will convince her. In a pleading manner, “I don’t call you up every day for work after 9. Once in a while you need to do this. It is difficult for me to get you clients like this. Please. You have to do it”.

There was a long silent pause as she continued to think with the phone still close to her listening to all the ‘Please’ by Javed with her least possible attention. The silence was interrupted by the door bell.

She opened the door to a guy who stood there holding food parcel in his hands. In a very usual manner she gestured him to keep the stuff in kitchen and asked him to add the bill in her account at the shop. The guy left.

After closing the door, with phone still held close to her ears, she sat on the very same chair facing away from the mirror and asked Javed in a low voice preceded by a deep sigh. “So who’s he?”

“They are two people. They are from some foreign country staying at the hotel across the road from your house. They are Sumer’s clients”.

“Javed Bhai, you know me. I don’t do such stuff”, she resisted.

“Everything happens for the first time. They are paying you Rs. 12,000, which is thrice the amount you get paid for handling one single man”, Javed stated with confidence.

“I am not getting a good feeling about this. Anyways, how many hours?” she continued.

“10  to 12. Two hours and 12,000 rupees. These a****** foreigners can’t keep it going like Indian men”, Javed said with a huge laughter as if he had cracked the best joke ever.

With almost a fake giggle, Rashmi asked, “What if I say no?”

Javed’s laughter came to a sudden halt. He continued, “Do it or get yourself a new manager. I am not doing it for you. I have given them my word.  No one would even pay a penny for your body if it wouldn’t have been me behind you”.

She gave in, “Okay. 10 to 12 and not even a second more than that”.

Javed looked calm now, “I am sending you the details, go through the sms. And yes, those are foreigners; I don’t need to tell you what they want”.

She uttered in a low tone, “Okay”.

After keeping the phone down, she made sure that everything, right from her gloss to eye lashes are in place. She picked up her bag and as soon as she reached the door, she paused for a while unsure of her decision. Somewhere in that dilemma, she chose to open the door and leave and paced to the hotel. When seen through the window of her house, it seemed like the darkness of the night engulfed her giving out suggestive silhouettes of her every now and then as she crossed one street light after another.

The clock showed 9:45 pm now. It was a long haul before she would be back. The lights of the house were left on. May be because she forgot to switch them off or probably she didn’t want to. The grim silence that engulfed the entire house was in a constant struggle with the second hand of the clock as it kept on moving. And somewhere in the mid of this extended tussle between the clock and the young night, the clock reached to show 12:20 am.

The door opens and Rashmi walks in. She threw her bag aside and sat on her chair in front of the mirror. After staring at the person in the mirror for a good span of time, she frantically started looking for the pile of tissues almost in a desperate attempt.  As soon as she got hold of the tissue box, she started taking out tissues hurriedly while still trying hard to hold her tears within her.  She started to wipe her face leaving aside the few drops of tears that rolled down her eyes. She almost made a conscious attempt not to bother the two drops that made efforts to reach all the way to her eyes from her soul.

She stayed there for a long time, motionless and thoughtless. She looked at the clock and it showed 1 am in the morning. She got up, moved to the kitchen to get herself a glass of water. While she was busy quenching her thirst, she noticed the untouched food packet she almost forgot about. She picked up the packet, almost unsure as to what to do with it and placed it back. She got out of the kitchen and moved towards the adjacent room. Just as she was about to enter there, she made sure that her eyes are clear from the traces of tears that she embraced a while back. She took a deep sigh and stepped inside the room that was barely lit with the help of a side lamp.

There on the bed in that room, was a 13 year old boy who was lost in his sleep. The races he used for walking were perfectly placed against the side table. The hearing aid was placed on the table next to a few scattered crayons. The teak wood of the table had a few interesting strokes of red, yellow and green on the shiny brown surface. Rashmi walked closer to the bedside almost stumbling over the false leg of the boy. She picked it up, placed it on the side and kept walking.

She stood there looking at the boy for a few minutes by the bedside until she noticed a piece of paper tucked inside boy’s fist. She carefully took the paper out. It was a paper that had a few scattered words placed here and there with colours and a stick sketch. In a writing that looked like to be of a 4 year old was written, “Happy Birthday to the world’s best mommy”. The emphasis given to the word ‘Mommy’ brought tears to her eyes. She was clearly lost. Her lips moved a bit and tears started rolling down one after another. She placed the card next to the boy, sat by her bedside and lied down next to the boy.

She switched off the table lamp and decided to go through a message on her phone one last time.

It read,

“Hi Rashmi. You have not been answering our phone calls and every attempt to get in touch with you has been a waste. We have no other way than this to tell you that your reports have come and we don’t know how much time we have in our hands. Please try to be strong. Don’t lose hope. We will do our best. Dr. Sharma”

In the light from the display of the cell phone, she kissed the boy on his cheeks and hugged him tightly. She looked at the cell phone once again, deleted that sms and switched it off. Now the night was even darker, the sound of the clock was even louder. The only thing that was racing fast and was yet not making noise was her own heart which somehow came to terms with the reality. The clock now showed 2 am in the morning. The lights were still on but they failed to flood in the dark insides of Rashmi’s heart.

- Piyush Singh

www.piyushabhaysingh.com

Picture Courtesy: World Wide Web

The Unforgettable Chhotu

Picture Courtesy: Internet.

The Sun was out there waiting for me and as usual I was tossing from one side to the other on my bed. No matter how things change and how far you have come out to be yourself, there will always be a few scars that you will cherish forever. Some scars are memories and a part of you wants to go back to them but despite of everything, you know that you have come a long way from them and you can never go back. 

I was just thinking about those mornings, which used to be relatively free. Being too lazy to cook something, I always landed up at the eating joints a block away. There is this joint which only served South Indian food along with added colours of ‘Gulab Jamuns’. When I moved to Kharghar, New Bombay, I wasn’t really keen on South Indian food. A year passed and when I settled more into the environment, I started observing things. my observation included everything, the food, utensils, tables and the chairs, and most important of all, the never fading smile on the faces working there. The only difference there was about the faces, the faces were all of boys who were under 14 and take my words, they were cute.

I didn’t even realize when I became so fond of them that the South Indian served in that joint became the only means on which I could survive. I would bank on every opportunity to rush there and see the daily happenings with a 'glass of coffee' in front of me. I would just watch them as they moved fast in between tables carrying the plates and the glasses as it was relatively a smaller place and most of the time it used to get so crowded that there were queues of would-be-eaters.

I became a familiar face out there. And as soon as I stepped in that place, all four of the boys would gather around me and with just a few exchanges of smiles they knew what I was going to order for food. Venkateshwar (one of them) would yell at Anna, “Ek mas-ss-aa-l-aa, ek ch-aa-i”. Sometimes when I used to ditch him with guesses, I would order ‘Uttapa’ and then he would yell “Mas-ss-aa-l-aa can-cel, ek Utt-a-pp-aa”. Then, if I was alone (that never happened), and if they were free as well (that also never happened), they will come up to the table where I generally sat and start a conversation.

There was this guy, who wore a T-shirt which was supposed to be of Ryan International School but only if he could know the meaning of the scrambled words written on his T-Shirt. I always found him cutest of the lot. He would come up to me and tell me tales about his days, and I would be no one than an active listener. He would tell about the girls he liked in my society, about the ‘off for a day’ he recently got but his favorite topic was to talk about my cell phone endlessly. Sometimes it would have been the Wallpaper or the ring tone or the sms tone, but he really liked them all. He would go out, click some good pictures and return the cell to me and then kept on reliving the memory till I give him my cell for the next time.

Way back in 1979, Government formed the first committee called Gurupadswamy Committee to study the issue of child labour and to suggest measures to tackle it. It observed that as long as poverty continued, it would be difficult to totally eliminate child labour and hence, any attempt to abolish it through legal recourse would not be a practical proposition. The Committee felt that in the circumstances, the only alternative left was to ban child labour in hazardous areas and to regulate and ameliorate the conditions of work in other areas. It recommended that a multiple policy approach was required in dealing with the problems of working children.

These are all words, written in black and white, I would rather go for the untold stories which he wanted to tell me, they sound much much sweeter and I am more than happy to listen to him every time. Even in my busiest of schedules I would try anything just to take out time and hang out there. Ch-aa-i after ch-aa-i, coffee after coffee, I started spending my holidays at that place, though I did not get much of holidays but I always made sure that 5 on 7 days a week, I land up there for dinner and I was always welcomed with a smile on those four faces, as if I was the remedy to their tiredness. Again the same miraculous tone and the yell ““Ek mas-ss-aa-l-aa, ek ch-aa-i”.

“The shackles are there on the body,

Dreams can never be tamed

The sky up above and the horizon unknown,

His wings can claim

The tears roll down and dry

With indifference in name

The murmur rises and dies

But it’s all in a game.”

- Piyush Abhay Singh

Please note that I wrote this blog sometime in the year 2006 and I still remember chhotu's face. Ever since I left that place in the year 2009, to this date, every house help we have got, despite of his age, is called Chhotu. The only thing that I still crave for is that smile.

The blog has been edited a bit in today's context. The old context of blog was different and I am sure you don't want to read about that. 

Ganesh Festival: The Acceptance

Photo by: Piyush Abhay Singh

It is probably a very bad start to a even worse blog, but I miss being in Mumbai round this time of the year. I don’t mean Septmeber generally when there is a slightly hazy envelope that covers the morning and the evening, but what I am referring to is the festivities encircling the amazing Ganeshotsav.

I still remember the first time I moved to Mumbai in the year 2005 for my course at National Institute of Fashion Technology. The environment was a bit different as we were the freshers and in a way we were the source of endless entertainment while we gladly gave away our dignity and whatsoever self esteem we were left with after a long tiring day of college. And practically there was no other way to skip these senior-junior interaction aka ragging.

In between those times of being away from the home for the first time and then successfully surviving the 26/11 deluge regular visits to the hospital in order to either see a friend of yours or get yourself for malaria, it was quite a necessity for us to look for safer and better alternatives because frankly, almost 2 months down and most of them were simply not accepted by the city.

On one such evening three of my house mates and I decided to sleep early as we were pretty much delighted with the fact that the following day was off on account of Ganesh Chaturthi. It was not because of the festival that we were delighted but the whole idea of having a holiday in middle of the week so that you can catch up on ever increasing list of pending assignments was getting us excited.

Being from northern India, I really wasn’t aware of the magnitude or the importance it holds in every one’s life in Maharashtra.  At around 12 we woke up to the sound of crackers echoing one after another in the entire society. Jumping out of the bed, the first thought that crossed my mind that “Oh damn! This time the seniors have taken it too far”. That estranged moment was strengthened by the sight of the house-mates running to the balcony to ensure if everything was okay.

The house was on the first floor and I could see some smoke rising up from the streets. Before I could have jumped to conclusions, the whole environment was filled the shouts of “Ganpati Bappa Morya”. I was numb looking at the huge sea of people who were just walking by carrying the idol, screaming and shouting and celebrating the arrival of the almighty. In that momentary trance, I decided to let go and give in. We rushed down the stairs and joined them. By the time it was 2 am in the morning, we were tired, drenched and liberated.

The following day, as it was reserved for assignments, took a different turn and none of us who were a part of something so beautiful and grand the night before, couldn’t focus on finishing assignments anymore. The outcome of that one magical night made us all feel at home. We decided to took a day off and went around roaming on the streets visiting every pandal the entire day. There was a pandal in almost every corner, every street or even the tiniest of the alleys. It was just strange getting used to the idea as first but we were high on celebrations as soon as we gave in.

Every since that first time, I made it a point to be out there in each and every Ganeshotsav that followed. It is true that my patience was tested at a lot of times but at the end of the day it was worth it. I still remember the time when we had to walk for miles to reach home on the day of the visarjan or the time when we were stuck in a traffic jam for about 6 hours. But looking at those piled up memories now, I am delighted that I went though all that. Because frankly, if I wouldn’t have gone through it, I wouldn’t have missed it so very bad this year when I am not in Mumbai.

At a time like this when I can not be physically present in any of the pandals in Mumbai, I am really at ease seeing that my timeline is flooded with photographs and updates from everyone who celebrates Ganpati festival with the same (or even more zeal) that I would have done.

At the end of the day, perhaps I am happier for the fact that we can leave aside the usual political discussions or the dollar rupee comparison or the crashing stock market and surrender completely to the almighty in His very grace and grandeur. Not to miss, do make it a point to cherish as many Modaks as you can for now because any other time in the year, they won’t taste as yummy as they do now.

Piyush Singh (9^th September 2013)

The Longest Night

Picture Courtesy: Internet

It was a really long well lit corridor and on its end, there was this painting by some Indian artist vaguely depicting a manifestation of some Indian God. Just before the corridor started, there was this small and colourful play area for toddlers, with swings, slides, balls and toy of every kind that a small kid would fancy. On both the sides of the corridor to the end, there were numerous doors with name plates of one doctor or the other. This is what pretty much described the left wing of the ground floor of a renowned hospital in New Delhi.


The hospital looked more or less like a luxury hotel. However, the placement of the play area was ironical. Looking at it, I don’t think that it was the only thing that gave rise to the feeling of irony. There was a water dispenser standing next to the rows of the comfortable sofa sets just opposite to entrance of the play area. Not far away from the seating arrangements was a guy who was selling snoodles and hot coffee.


It was a hot summer night in the month of June. It has been drizzling every now and then since the morning. The LCD screens installed nearby flickered with the news that screamed – Hottest Day Of The Year. There were some visuals too, of the reporters going around and asking questions to common man at their best. In between the water cooler and potted palm tree, there was a light green coloured Sofa on which, he was sitting, with a magazine half open laid on his thighs. He didn’t seem to pay attention to the magazine and to the news on the LCD screen. There was no reason as to why that piece of news should bother him. He sat there looking into eternity, flipping the pages of a magazine every now and then. He was trying hard to read something but after every two minutes, he would lose track of everything and would start staring into eternity across the infinite length of that corridor.


All of a sudden, he got up from his place and started moving towards the huge hospital lobby which looked even more glamorous. He paused for a moment just before entering into the lobby, took a deep breath and magically made his trademark lopsided grin to appear out of nowhere. He then walked into the illusion that things will be fine if he just smiled, no matter how forceful that smile be. Once he was in the lobby, he started looking for a few familiar faces. Finally he could locate the group of people he was looking for. A lady was sitting in the centre with her eyes frozen to the ground; a couple of ladies surrounded her while all the men in the gathering stood close by. He started walking towards them and paused all of a sudden, took out his cell phone, pretending to do something and then continued to walk again. Only he knew that his smile isn’t enough to convince that everything is right.


“You have been gone too long”, asked one of the ladies. He took his time smiling back and answering, “Yes, a friend of mine called up”. “Oh! No wonder you took close to an hour”, the lady quipped. The boy didn’t bother to say anything. He smiled back and stood closer to the group of male members who were discussing the performance of Indian Cricket Team in the world cup. He smiled to himself and thought about the same lady’s remark on his long disappearance in a situation other than they were in. “Too long a call for a 20 year old”, she would have said and that made him look at that lady once more, with a grin of course. The lady who was seated in center, was his mother and the others were those few distant relatives who were there, if in case.


India failed to perform in the world cup, but there were things much bigger than that which were bothering them. Apparently, for once the cricket team should be given due credits that they provided enough material for the group to see through the grim silence which was taking over everyone’s heart every passing second. Someone was decent enough to get enough coffee for this particular group of people. When he was offered a coffee, he politely denied. On this, the mother broke her silence, looked at him and said, “You should have it. You hadn’t eaten since the morning”. Taking it to be a clue, the other relatives flocked him, pestering him to go home for a while, freshen up and eat something. Going home and eating was nowhere in his list for and he wanted to be there. But he finally had to give in. He announced, “Okay. I’ll go. Even Mom can come along and eat with me”. The relatives now flocked the hassled mother and pestered her to accompany the boy. The mother too, gave in.


The boy asked his mother, “You sure you don’t want to be here? They might let us have a look at Dad.” To which, a gentleman, apparently the oldest and seemingly wisest of them all said, “Its 9PM. There is no way that these people would bend the rules of the hospital for you”. “But Dad has been here in this hospital for over two months fighting for his life. I have a feeling that something is just not right tonight”, the boy countered. His father has been shifted to ICU a week back and was now kept alive with the help of a ventilator. The boy was persistent that he would be allowed to meet his Father beyond those visiting hours of the hospital. However, the mother and the son were sent home after being assured that they will be called if at all they are allowed to see the patient.


The mother and the son, have made that hospital their second home as they spent close to 20 hours a day within those premises which concealed within itself a million emotions and tears of grim suffering and endless joy. The hospital’s rules didn’t allow more than one attendant per patient to be in the building beyond visiting hours, but they both were allowed to stay. Probably this little ‘bending of the rule’ was to be blamed if the boy was persistent that he would be allowed to see his dad. Before the ailing father was shifted to the ICU, he was in a room which had a nice arrangement for the attendant to sleep. However, the boy always insisted on sleeping on the recliner in the common room for two reasons – the night view of the city from the seventh floor and secondly, he didn’t have to wear that smile anymore for the night and pretend that everything is going to be alright.


While on way to home, they both chose to remain silent. The only thing that disrupted the silence was discussion about a few things that doctors have said, followed by desperate attempts of manipulating the words in order to draw maximum optimism out of the things that doctors have a tough time communicating to people who flock to know of the patient’s well being. It was all said but no one ever stopped anyone from hoping for a miracle. The car wiper would occasionally make a sound every now and then, just like a heart beat makes its presence felt. The rhythm of the wiper reminded the boy of the rhythm of his father’s heart beat, which he so wanted to go on forever.


They reached home. It was still the same except for the melancholy that surrounded every nook and corner of the house and overshadowed its grandeur. For the first time, the boy could listen to the otherwise nonexistent noises that came from kitchen every day. He could hear the bowls being arranged on the tray, the spoons being placed, the gas lighter being ticked and most importantly, the water being poured into the jug. The credit for this goes to the silence that surrounded the place. The food was finally laid in front of them and with a certain amount of efforts they gulped down a few morsels battling the lump in their throats with the help of water.


The boy leaned back on his rocking chair and closed his eyes for the first time in the span of more than 24 hours. As soon as he closed his eyes, random thoughts and memories took over as If they have been conspiring for this very moment all the while. The memories were good mingled with reality for the moment, they were supposed to leave a bad after effect. His entire life flashed by in front of him. The little achievements that fetched him those proud words of his father, to those hidden report cards that invited the lecture he had been through for more than a million times. Except for the last three months, everything was accepted with a smile that appeared to be a real one.


He remembered that how he walked in to his new school holding his father’s hands, the parent teacher meetings, the birthday celebrations and a lot more. He was thinking about the years gone by and how at one instance, he ran up to his father and got the teacher dismissed from the school because she caned him for using shortcut while working out a mathematics problem. He smiled and then was lost again further deep into the memory lane. He thought of the same June, years back when he and his father drove miles on the old Bajaj scooter because he wanted to have Chicken Tikkas and even the rain couldn’t stop the father from fulfilling the boy’s wish. He smiled and decided that he won’t give up. He had read somewhere that positive thinking can lead to miracles. ‘The author can’t be lying’, he told himself.


He opened his eyes and decided to get up and sit in prayer for a while. As soon as he got up, the phone rang. The hospital authorities have allowed the two to see the patient, was the news. He felt relieved. He woke up his mother from her sleep and said, “Mom, let’s go. They have allowed us to see Dad. Hurry up!” He rushed to the car and insisted that he would drive. He didn’t want to delay it to the extent that hospital authorities would change their minds. There was someone from the group to receive them at the gate. They reached the hospital. And without any obstacle, which they generally encountered otherwise like security, entry passes, etc, they were led straight to the ICU where the other members were standing outside the door with their heads down”.


He wasn’t prepared for this sight. He was told that positive thinking works. He approached the others walking slowly with his heart beating faster every minute. At the end of the gallery he could see all of them discussing something among themselves. He paced up since he wanted to get there as soon as possible, or probably too late. The extreme silence of another long corridor that led to the ICU as the clock was showing half an hour past 1 in the morning, was making it worse for him. He arrived at the entrance of the ICU and looked at the people there in their eyes hoping for some good signs. The gentleman said, “Why don’t you go and see him on your own?” The boy looked at his mother. She was still dragging herself, walking very slowly, in order to delay any bad news that might have been waiting for her. She was far behind.


He rushed in to see his father and as he approached, he was looking for his father’s pulse on the big screen which was just mounted above the bed. He wanted to see the pulse before he sees his father, that wouldn’t have made a difference however. The pulse was not normal, but the beep of the machine suggested that it is still in the limits. He wanted to feel relieved but he still has to make his way to his father who was surrounded by machines of all kinds. The tubes going in and out of his father’s skin didn’t bother him anymore. ‘Those tubes have been there for a long time now’, he convinced himself. The doctor attending the patient made way for the patient’s kin to have a few word with the patient.


“Papa”, the boy said in a low voice as he approached his father. There was no movement. “Papa”, he said again, this time a little louder. He was standing on his father's bedside now. He bent down close to his father’s ears and gathering all his courage, said again, “Papa”. There was no response. He looked at the doctor and the doctor looked at the screen again, just to see if the pulse is normal. Reassuring the pulse rate again, Doctor signaled him to stop stressing the patient. He took his father’s hand in his, lost in the battle between the past and the future. His father opened his eyes and he wished that he wouldn’t have. The eyes were bulging out and were yellow way beyond than normal. The father didn't show much of a reaction and even the eyes looked that they have been frozen by a single glance of the death that awaits him. He knew that it is now a matter of few minutes of may be hours and everything will be over. He could have broken down that very moment, but he chose not to. He looked at those wrinkled hands and said once again, “Papa” followed by 5 minutes of silent when no one or nothing spoke. The machine just kept on beeping, a signal that he was still alive.


The doctor signaled for the boy’s mother to be sent in. The boy knew that this was the last thing his father has actually heard. While he was walking out and crossed his mother, he told her, “Don’t take long. He is sleeping”. He paused for a moment before getting out of the ICU and looked back at everything, except his father. He came out of the room. Was in tears and asked the lady standing next to him. “Tell me, how much time is left?” The lady hugged him and said, “He will be fine. Be positive”. The boy retorted, “Stop lying” and went on to a corner looking at the dark area that led to the service elevators.


Five minutes later he returned, with no trace that he had cried. He knew that his mother would be coming out any moment. He stood at the door waiting for his mother. As expected, his mother too couldn’t bear the sight and the reality. Being a woman, she couldn’t hold her tears and by the time she was out of the gate, she was crying uncontrollably. The boy came forward, hugged her mother like some another 20 years have been added to his age all of a sudden. He offered her water, wiped her tears and the first thing he said to her was, “He is alive, Maa. Didn’t you see that big machine that showed the pulse?”. The mother who was not fully convinced questioned, “The eyes?” The boy had already thought of an answer to this one because he knew his mother way too well. “Drugs Maa, drugs. He is alive. Let’s go out of here. Someone out of these people can stay here tonight”, said the boy, pointing towards his uncle, aunts and his cousin.


The mother refused to leave the hospital and she was insisting on staying there tonight. Finally after a lot of persuasion, the mother and the son were sent home again on the condition that they will be there at 7 AM in the morning. So, technically that left them with only 5 hours of separation because it was already 2 AM by the clock. Despite of all, the boy was still hopeful that his father will be better in the morning. More than the power of positive thinking, he had faith in his prayers and his God. His cousin, who was elder to him by some 12 years, led them to the car. Before the car could leave the hospital premises, the mother asked the son, “Shouldn’t we stay? We both know the reality”. The boy, while trying to look away, replied, “Don’t you have faith in your God? You have been so very religious all this while. I have prayed too and he will be fine tomorrow morning. He is still breathing”. Convinced now, the mother wiped the tears from her eyes.


They were home again. The boy said, “I am going to my room, I am having a severe headache”. Mother had no apparent reasons to stop him because crying in front of each other would have made them weaker anyways. The boy rushed to his bed, and covered his face with a pillow so as to muffle even the slightest of the sound that would suggest that he was crying. In between those attempts, the sight and the memories, somehow he fell asleep. The phone rang. He looked at the clock and it was half an hour to seven. He received the call while still trying to sound normal. It was his cousin on the other side who had called up to say, “You know, you have to be strong. Your father is no more now. You have to take his place so be strong”. These three sentences took a lot of time coming out of the mouth of the person who was speaking and the voice was mingled with constant stammers and unusual silence. They took even longer to be believed and to be allowed to seep into his mind.


Gathering what all was left of him. He asked, “Maa…?” To which, the cousin replied, “I have already told her. It was impossible for her to break this news to you. She is already on her way to the hospital”, and with this, the call ended. The boy got out of the bed and moved out of his room. Knocked on the door of the room adjacent to his, there was no answer. He opened the door and walked in to see that his younger brother was still sleeping peacefully and oblivious of how things have changed overnight, which happened to be the longest night for him.


© Piyush Abhay Singh

Sand Castles

On a lonely stroll,
by the sea shore.
I picked up sea shells,
memories and a lot more.
Looking once at the white moon,
as it proudly shone.
I treasured a few yesterdays,
and kept walking on.


Not far from where I was,
I could see a few fading dreams.
Walking closer I could see,
bleeding hopes and dying gleams.
A few sand castles lie there,
destroyed by the impish waves.
I survived but my wounded dreams,
Went straight to their graves.


I thought of making castles far away,
from where the waves play.
I lived another dream,
in order to live another day.
I added to my dismays hoping,
that my castle would stay.
Picked up the remains and,
Went on walking my way.


I still continue to make sand castles,
Next to the waves I've known.
Look at the skies and seas,
That I once used to own.
Looked in the eyes of the ocean,
that proudly proclaimed, 'I won'.
But Undettered, I didn't stop,
And went on building another one.


I remained there all alone,
With dirt in my eyes and hands.
I continued working on a few more
On the shores of timeless sands.
The waves were now the spectators,
Of my tragically hopeless story.
They remained silent, giggled often,
To add to my castle's glory.


To add to my castle's glory...


To add to my castle's glory...


To add to my castle's glory...


© Piyush Abhay Singh