• Indian Aspie

Now you are gone

Updated: May 15

Love is a weird thing, something you can't define or explain. People have died in the pursuit of love, have lost their minds trying to explain it to others, always stopping at a point knowing very well that the dictionary does not have enough words to be used to explain what one feels.

I am writing this for my papa, he was very close and dear to me. He used to have his own way of expressing love, something which I have learnt over a period of time. His way of viewing love was something so pure and innocent that many times people misunderstood it. People didn't understand it was love because they are used to hear sentences like “I love you” which sounds so fake and made up. He always believed in expressing it, showing it and to make the other person happy and comfortable.

Edging towards his last breath, he was in pain and discomfort and used to share the deepest moments of pain and hurt with his love. I used to tell her that he will say such things to only you because he loves you the most.

I also loved him the way he used to love everyone else, never told him, always showed him. He cared for me deeply, gave whatever time he had and used to find additional time from his busy schedule for us. Looking at his lifestyle it always looked everyone was given 24 hours but he was given 30 hours every day.

I left everything for him, life, work, friends, family, everything, just to make him better, to pull him out of the bottomless pit, knowing very well that it's a battle that I have lost from day one. I did it cause I don't want to regret later that I didn't do anything when I could have, that I let him down, that I don't love him.

It was frustrating and painful for me too, there were moments when I used to go and secretly cry, silently, alone, to myself, so that he doesn't know. I wanted him to know that I am strong and I am not gonna give up on him ever. I didn't give up on him but prayed that he moves on to the next world quickly. The pain was unbearable to watch.

It was the worst kind of torcher one can think of, the kind where you pray you just die but you don't, where you beg for death but it just sit there watching you suffer as if deaths hands are tied and is helpless.

I am very sure death also cried for being unable to help him. I guess that's why the gods cried that day. Showered their blessings on him silently, calling him in, I am certain everyone would have gathered at the gates of heaven to receive him and he would have walked proudly inside to start his new life.

Souls like his are not sent back, they are just gathered by them like we collects unique and rare stamps and antiques. We will show everyone what we have but you can't have them or touch them.

I was there when he silently moved on to the next universe. Desperately trying to bring him back. Slapping him, shaking him and pinching him to respond. I knew it was too late but I didn't want him to go just like that. I remembered praying for him to go but at that moment I didn't want it to be just like that. Seeing him not respond to my call I jumped on his chest, pumping him till I can feel his ribs crack, applying all my learnings from my first aid class just to make him breathe again.

The memories of all of those things I did to try and bring him back are something I guess I will never forget. His lifeless body felt so light, his head was dangling and I rested it on my shoulder, desperate and scared, trying to wake him up but couldn't. Finally the doctor came and announced the inevitable truth and I stopped. Was I at peace? I don't know. Was I scared? Yes, definitely. A look on his face which we saw after ages was something nice, the kind of look that one has when they are finally able to relax. He was at peace, all his pain and troubles were gone. All that was left was a large void that is still there. People say it gets filled slowly and steadily but I guess its more like a scar from an injury. It may heal but it will always be a weak spot, always show the world that something happened, it will have its own story.


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