“Isn’t it fun to be a child, dada?”
“What? I thought you hated being a child? What changed?”
“You. You changed me.”
“Me? How’s that?”
“Well, you have that walrus moustache. I don’t want to have one when I grow up.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Then, how will I become like you?”
“Again, you don’t have to.”
“Of course, I have to. I want to be exactly like you.”
“Hahaha, baba, you’re a weird one.”

I remember those times, Dada, when we had those irrelevant conversations as you pushed me on the swing. I think that was the only part of my childhood that was worth remembering. Those days when it was warm and I could clearly sense our bond. As strong as iron, as precious as gold.When we sat together we would either just talk endlessly or astay in the peaceful silence that was created by your calm nature. We would make ruthlessly mean jokes.
Those were good times. I wish I could goback to them.

Then, slowly, there came instances when I started becoming oblivious to your presence. It was probably because of the new people that had come into my life- friends and influencers. They were nothing like you, but by then my idea had changed, my feelings had changed. I had stopped wanting to become like you.

“Baba, what do you want to eat today?”
“Rice.”
“You have to be more specific than that.”
“With curry.”
“Still not quite the answer, so you will have to eat whatever I make.”
“Mm-hmm.”

I soon came to that stage where everything was humorous for me.
So, hiding your clothes and wallet while you took a bath was just a joke to me, but it must have been embarrassing for you to walk around trying to look for your lost belongings, asking others was not an option- it would only result in more humiliation. And then, imagine finding them, soiled and wet, under the same tree where we would sit and talk endlessly. I got to tell the story a million times to everyone around me- who, too, found it hilarious. But as I’m writing this now, I realize how mortified you must have felt.

Time flies fast, doesn’t it? One day, I was aspiring to be you, the next you were the obstruction in my path. My impudent and uncivilised behaviour is the problem to this day, I wish you had scolded me and gotten me back to my senses.
I had started looking down at you because “you are just a servant”. This uncontrollable frustration at myself and my surroundings, which initiated because I couldn’t have control over everything was the major reason why I became how I became. But, this frustration can never be an excuse for my choices, my decisions and their consequences.

Teenage, for me, was an exceptionally tough time of life. The upsurge of hormones, not only mine but others my age as well, was very hard to repress. I thought I was a lone wanderer. I let myself be influenced. In retrospect, I was never alone. I was just hiding from you.

I remember coming home, with a broken nose and a swollen eye- much to your shock. That shocked look on your face made me furious, partially because I had never seen it before and because it made me realise the depth of the situation that I was in.
That day, I screamed at you because I didn’t want to come to terms with this realisation. I pushed you away because you and your “look” was forcing me to acknowledge it.
That was the very first time I hit you.

I soon lost count.
Every time I did it I would realise that it was wrong but every time it was too late to do anything about it. I would push you, strike you right across the face, knock you down in an instant.
If the seven-year-old me saw myself at that moment he would be shocked.
Introspecting, something I hated doing then, seems to be the only worthwhile thing to do now.

Dada, you tolerated everything. The disgusting words, disgusting actions. You never said a word. Now, I wish you had. Anything would have been better than going through all of that. I remember you telling me, that crying was never sad. It was just us accepting our true selves at that point. If only I’d cried in your arms back then. Told you how weak, hurt and broken I actually was. Then I’d have been thankful to my teenage for making me feel such a variety of emotions. Never, would I have had been misguided.
The guilt, embarrassment, fear and hatred mingled together to form emotions that even now I can’t decipher and the only way for me to stay in control was to get intoxicated. Drugs helped me calm down, stay in control and feel happy- even if it was for a short while. Drugs also made everything worse. I would hurt anything and everything in my way, and you were kind enough to take other’s share of abuse as well.

I was so lost that I didn’t notice the bruises on your face, the scratches on your arms and legs and the fingerprints on your neck.

I wish I could go back and make amends but it is too late now.

Because now I sit in chains. Only able to introspect my choices, all of which are bad. Like when I let others convince me, when I convinced myself, when I hurt others’ feelings, when I hurt my feelings, when i decided to grow this devilishly- long beard, when I let drugs and liquor cloud my judgement, when I picked that knife, when I spilt kerosene around the house, when I lit the match, and especially when I pushed that knife deep into your heart.

These choices were bad, bad ones and I won’t be surprised if you don’t forgive me for them.
It was horrifying for me too to come to terms with the reality. But that doesn’t matter. I’ve lost you.

I don’t remember much of what happened afterwards. Although there is a vague memory of me sitting in your blood as the narcotics wore off. I cried as the flames leapt over your body.
I wanted to join you.

That night, the cool breeze filtered through the leaves; the starry night melting into a canvas of orange and red shades. The sun rays at dawn radiated warmth and heat. Yet, I couldn’t find a moment of peace. Because I missed you.

I was later told that I had killed many that night although something tells me that I was not the one who had done all of it, no one believed me. I had killed the only one who would.

Before leaving, I visited the swing. Still intact there, our querencia: a place where I strangely felt at home now. But I didn’t deserve it now. I could see the reminisces of the love that remained there. You seem like an elysian dream, one I never deserved. I can never be forgiven for my sins. The past always claws it’s ways out. I’m not allowed to come to you, dada. I just have to live, bounded, trapped in a cage, missing you everyday. I know it’s meaningless for an unforgivable sin, but I’ll say sorry everyday when I cry, for I’m sorry for everything I’ve done and will always be, though I’ll never be able enough for the apology to be accepted, nor can I be forgiven by anyone, because I killed the only one who could.

𝙁𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙖𝙪𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙧:

She was a very special being. Born with a talent of making everything seem alright, she was smart, bright, kind and simply amazing. She drove me towards happiness and comfort.
This story is dedicated to her.
I want to thank you for everything you have done.
I am stupid sometimes. I don’t know what to say, when to say it or how to say it, so I end up not saying it. I am unable to properly express myself- so I don’t even try to.
Because of this, I end up with a much more complex and confusing version of what I actually intended to say…
That’s why I express differently, not through words but through creations.
Thank you for helping me understand that.
Thank you for everything else as well.