The crisp leaves rustled as my shoes crushed them into pieces. It reminded me of hopeless and shattered dreams. It was a mistake. I was taking another route back home: something I hadn’t done for months. Everything about that small road in the heart of Kathmandu reminded me of him. It was a mistake, going down that path again, as my tightly stitched wounds of memory threatened to flood all the emotions out. I had locked him up in some corner of my mind, sealed him, enclosed him, and buried him in the depths of my soul.
As I progressed into the narrow road, where no two vehicles can pass at the same time, I saw him. It was just next to that shop down the road where he had bought me cheese balls, when I was five. I remember the cheese balls spilling from the packet, all over the ground, and his heavy voice reprimanding me for being clumsy. His voice, I miss it so much. It was by those trees that he had pushed me on my bicycle, when I was nine. I remember putting my arm around him to announce that I would be the best cyclist ever, the next “Neil” Armstrong perhaps. He had laughed and said, “My little daughter’s going to be a greater cyclist than any Lans Armstong” and humorously encouraged my absurd notion. It was that drain by the road, where we had argued for minutes, when I was eleven. I remember him scolding me, “You shouldn’t expect me to spoon feed you every time,” as he got on his knees by the drain, to stoop down and collect a sample of waste water for my science project. It was on that bench, where my teenage qualms were showing its colors. I remember him, awkwardly trying to understand my inhibitions and fears and confusions. It was just under that dusty old sign saying Mahesh Meat Shop that we had talked about ethics of animal rights and related politics, when I was fourteen. I recall him looking at me then, and saying, “Maybe we’ll have a better society one day.” It was just outside the Saraswati Book House that we had ended up in a quarrel about who the better footballer was: Messi or Ronaldo. I remember him scoffing Messi, my favorite, “Messi is nothing compared to Ronaldo. Ronaldo—now there was a football player, one of the greatest there ever was.” I remember retorting him, “Messi’s the greatest. I’ll marry him one day.” He had laughed then. I can still hear the laughter... I will always hear it.
The small road had come to an end, but it was too late. Tears came rushing in. Deep down tears. I had stopped and restrained those tears, from the day of the announcement of my father’s death to this very day. I had avoided breaking down. I had to be responsible, as the eldest child: a hand, for my mother to hold on, and a shoulder, for my sister to cry upon. But then the tears refused to lie in, and before I knew it, I was hiding behind a bush by the road, and crying, crying for myself...until I could feel no more.
As the tears dried, reality crept in and I walked back to the middle of the road, desperately trying to stitch those wounds again. I knew then that there would be no more adventures with my father. We would not be the ones on this road. I felt the loss and my heart grew heavy, my knees
wobbled, my eyes grew dim, and a fresh batch of tears lurked on the threshold. I gritted my teeth to stop it and that’s when I saw.....
I saw a tiny Hello Kitty sticker that I had bought from the stationary shop, tattooed to the electricity pole. I must have been six when I had stuck the sticker there, right under my father’s nose, while he was engrossed reading his newspaper. I had smiled a smile of a triumphant child who had outwitted her “mighty” father. I put my finger on the old sticker and felt it. Suddenly I felt warm, I felt content, and I felt my father’s hand on mine. With anxiety but sober expressions, I rubbed my hand over it and I felt my father around me. I slowly closed my eyes to feel more, wanting to feel more. But only silence, a void never to be filled.
Suddenly I heard a voice calling my name. I slowly opened my eyes, and then turned around. It was my mother and my little sister (Stuti) calling out for me with smiles on their faces: smiles that had always acted as a band-aid for my wounds and smiles that reminded me that I still have a wonderful future in front of me. That’s when it happened. I saw a different road. I saw no regrets and no loss. I saw no despair or hopelessness. That’s right. I could no-longer allow things to just happen. Stuti needed her big sister and my mother, who’s suffered as much as I have or more needed a friend and,
my father’s dreams of a better society had to be fulfilled. So now to make up for what I did—or rather, didn’t do—I look out for those around me, my family, my friends and most importantly my rock star dreams! The road called out for new memories and Baba (dad) always taught me that we could always start over. I guess I took a bit long to understand that.
I walked towards my family and, wrapping my arms around them, I said, “Remember how I wanted to be a rock star when I was small? Well I am going to be one!” They humorously encouraged my bizarre notion. But I was serious this time.
After a long time, I was happy and relaxed.
After a long time, I was free.
The crisp leaves rustled as my shoes crushed them into pieces. But this time I dared to look up at the autumn trees and instead of the falling leaves, I saw birds and butterflies, I saw a sunny day, and I saw an opportunity to start all over again.
- Sukriti Raut
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