The Train Does Not Stop Here

He does not notice the small station with its board sign wearing off. He does not spot the old man waving the flag. The old man is my father. I am trailing behind him, barefooted, squinting to glimpse the passengers.
The train does not stop here.

A Place of Quiet Objects

If there’s anything that you must hold on to for dear life, it is your memory. It is a reminder of a life lived, albeit etched with suffering and hardships.

Sea of Sounds

The spasmodic cough of father’s old scooter bellowing, “Leave me leaning by the Banyan tree, under its shade I shall remain for years hence.”