No farewell tour. No final speech. Not even an “I’ll be back,” like some lama returning in another life. Just an empty bed and a lifetime of unanswered questions.
How I miss my father now.
I miss him like a child misses his mother—except the child is me, a soon-to-be 50-year-old man who still can't find his car keys half the time. I miss him with a longing that surprises me. The older I get, the more I need him.
When I was a little boy, I used to sleep in his bed. He kept me warm and safe, like a human burrito wrapped in love and old-man smells.
Not bad smells, mind you.
The smell of hard work. Of soil. Of yesterday's dinner and tomorrow's worries.
I'd burrow into his side like a mole digging for gold. His arm was my pillow, and his snoring was my lullaby.
These days, my expensive memory-foam pillow cost fifty dollars and still doesn't love me back.
Back then, I thought nothing could ever change.
Of course, everything did.
As I grew older, I graduated to the upstairs bedroom, where I thought I was king of the house. I had posters of actors on the wall. I had a radio. I had big dreams and absolutely no clue what I was doing.
Little did I know that the real king lived downstairs.
Every morning he woke at 5 a.m., as reliably as the sunrise. He would recite his mantra, loud and clear. He didn't just chant it—he sang it.
His voice wasn't beautiful in the conventional sense. Imagine a dying cow harmonizing with a broken harmonium. That was my father.
Yet somehow it moved me.
He sang like a broken-hearted nightingale who'd just been ghosted by God. Like a man who had seen too much of life and was asking the universe for a refund.
His voice cut straight through my teenage soul.
I'd lie in bed pretending to be asleep while secretly tearing up like I was in a Bollywood tragedy directed by a monk. I'd wipe my eyes with the corner of my pillowcase and convince myself it was allergies.
At 5 a.m.
In a dust-free room.
A truly Oscar-worthy performance.
Then came my long adolescence—which lasted from roughly fifteen to thirty-five.
During those years, I disliked my father's advice.
If I'm honest, there were times I disliked him too.
Because I knew everything.
I was the great genius who once put a potato directly on a fire because I thought it would cook faster. I was the philosopher who got angry with ants because they were "looking at me wrong." I was the man who argued with teachers and somehow still believed he was always right.
In short, I knew nothing.
I was flying a cardboard airplane and calling myself a pilot.
Every piece of advice he gave me, I dismissed.
"Save money," he'd say.
I'd go buy useless junk.
"Respect your elders," he'd say.
I'd start an argument over the last piece of pork bone.
So much for wisdom.
Now I'm almost fifty, and the universe has a cruel sense of humor.
The older I get, the more often I hear my father's voice in my head—and the more often I realize he was right.
I wish he were here.
Sometimes I sob thinking about it.
I was often cruel and impatient with him. Looking back, I feel as though I could have won an award for World's Worst Son. I once told him his cooking was boring.
His cooking.
The man who ate cold rice so his children could have warm food.
What was wrong with me?
More things than I care to admit.
I think about his life now.
He and my mother raised eight children.
Eight.
That's not a family; that's a small army.
Eight hungry mouths.
Eight pairs of shoes.
Eight fevers in the middle of the night.
Eight report cards to worry about.
Yet somehow they managed.
My father worked tirelessly in the fields. I rarely heard him complain. He never said, "I'm tired." He never said, "I've had enough."
He simply woke earlier and slept later.
The sun was his boss, and he never asked for overtime.
He fed us, clothed us, and somehow sent all of us to school.
Looking back, I don't know how he did it.
It feels like a miracle.
Today I have two boys, and some days I feel overwhelmed.
Two.
Not eight.
One thinks vegetables are suspicious. The other treats "clean your room" as a gentle suggestion rather than a direct instruction.
Meanwhile, my father raised eight children and still found time to repair roofs, build sheds, plough fields, settle disputes, and visit neighbours just to see how they were doing.
I struggle to assemble furniture and usually end up with extra screws and a shelf that leans like it's had a difficult week.
I should have learned more from him.
I should have listened.
What I admire most now is not just his hard work, but his calmness.
When problems appeared, he rarely panicked.
A cow escaped?
"We'll manage."
The roof leaked?
"We'll manage."
I broke a window again?
"We'll manage."
Meanwhile, I spill a glass of milk and treat it like a national emergency.
Oh, how I miss him.
I am fortunate that my mother is still alive, but she lives far away. I can send money, and I do. But money is a poor substitute for presence.
Money doesn't sit beside her.
Money doesn't say, "Eat more—you look thin."
Money doesn't tell family stories.
Money doesn't laugh.
Money doesn't hug.
Sometimes it feels like a cold digital bandage covering a wound that really needs a warm human hand.
Life is strange that way.
Just when you think you're the child, you become the parent.
And just when you're finally ready to apologize, the person who deserves the apology is no longer here to hear it.
That is what makes me sad.
Not the kind of sadness you feel when a television series ends.
The real kind.
The heavy kind.
The kind that sits on your chest at three in the morning and replays every mistake you've ever made.
Remember that time you were rude to him?
Remember that time you didn't call?
Remember that time you chose something trivial over spending time with him?
Yes.
I remember.
Thank you, insomnia.
Thank you for the highlights reel of shame.
How I wish I could turn back the clock.
I'd wind it all the way back to 5 a.m.
I'd crawl into that warm bed again and say:
"Dad, please sing your sad mantra one more time."
And this time I'd listen properly.
I wouldn't pretend to be asleep.
I wouldn't hide my tears.
I'd simply lie there beside him and let that broken-nightingale voice fill the room.
And before he finished, I'd tell him I loved him.
Because I never said it enough.
Not nearly enough.
I'd also apologize for the potato incident.
And for ignoring his advice.
And for every foolish thing in between.
There are countless stories I could tell about my father.
They will never end.
Writing about him is like counting stars. You can keep going forever and never reach the end.
Every memory is a door.
Every door opens into another room.
And in every room there is something of him—his voice, his walk, his patience, his quiet way of fixing things.
Including me.
Especially me.
So I'll keep writing.
Not for anyone else.
For him.
And for the forty-nine-year-old boy who still misses his father's warm bed and his 5 a.m. concert of sorrow and love.
Even if that concert sounded a little like a dying harmonium.
Maybe especially because it did.
