The letter remained unopened for days. He had read it in his mind a hundred times before his trembling hands dared to break the seal. The handwriting was familiar, though aged—just like everything he had left behind.
“And you are upset that I didn’t keep my promise to reach home.”
He exhaled, his breath heavier than the years that had passed. He had once sworn to return to where his mother’s hands had cupped his face, whispering prayers for his safe return. But distant places kept offering promises of making a difference in the lives of others, leading only to more struggles.
For decades, he had worked and dreamed. But the more he worked, the more he felt his soul emptying. His heart had remained where he had left it, but his soul had withered in the process.
And now, many moons later, the old and frail body that once ran through familiar streets and open spaces finally found its way back. The place was still there, yet it wasn’t. The landmarks still stood, but they no longer recognized him. The paths he once walked were now crowded with unfamiliarity; the quiet corners of his childhood had turned into something unrecognizable. The dialect he once spoke fluently now felt foreign on his tongue. He moved among the people as a ghost among the living, searching for something—someone—familiar to him. But time had moved, and so had the minds of the people.
The absence of the older generation struck him hardest. The voices that once filled the doorways, the familiar faces that had watched him grow—gone. Some had passed, others had left in search of their own futures elsewhere. The wisdom, the warmth, the stories—they had vanished like footprints in a storm with some vague traces of their lives found in the fast disappearing graveyards that were being turned into the use of the living rather than the dead. In their place stood a younger world, moving forward with no memory of what once was.
His childhood neighborhood was gone. In its place stood cold concrete, indifferent to his return. The place of worship where he had once prayed was larger but unfamiliar. He searched for the old trees where he once sat with friends, but even they had been cut down to make way for something new.
The realization crushed him—there was nothing left to retrieve. His mother’s voice, his father’s loving smiles, the scent of freshly baked bread, the warmth of the past—it had all been stolen by time and absence. He had turned into a man of two worlds, belonging to neither.
He sat by the last remaining tree, the weight of years pressing against his brittle bones. “Good man, he was,” a passerby whispered in the breeze, but he barely heard. His heart had finally found its way home, but there was no soul left to greet it.
“And you are upset that I didn’t keep my promise to reach home.”
He exhaled, his breath heavier than the years that had passed. He had once sworn to return to where his mother’s hands had cupped his face, whispering prayers for his safe return. But distant places kept offering promises of making a difference in the lives of others, leading only to more struggles.
For decades, he had worked and dreamed. But the more he worked, the more he felt his soul emptying. His heart had remained where he had left it, but his soul had withered in the process.
And now, many moons later, the old and frail body that once ran through familiar streets and open spaces finally found its way back. The place was still there, yet it wasn’t. The landmarks still stood, but they no longer recognized him. The paths he once walked were now crowded with unfamiliarity; the quiet corners of his childhood had turned into something unrecognizable. The dialect he once spoke fluently now felt foreign on his tongue. He moved among the people as a ghost among the living, searching for something—someone—familiar to him. But time had moved, and so had the minds of the people.
The absence of the older generation struck him hardest. The voices that once filled the doorways, the familiar faces that had watched him grow—gone. Some had passed, others had left in search of their own futures elsewhere. The wisdom, the warmth, the stories—they had vanished like footprints in a storm with some vague traces of their lives found in the fast disappearing graveyards that were being turned into the use of the living rather than the dead. In their place stood a younger world, moving forward with no memory of what once was.
His childhood neighborhood was gone. In its place stood cold concrete, indifferent to his return. The place of worship where he had once prayed was larger but unfamiliar. He searched for the old trees where he once sat with friends, but even they had been cut down to make way for something new.
The realization crushed him—there was nothing left to retrieve. His mother’s voice, his father’s loving smiles, the scent of freshly baked bread, the warmth of the past—it had all been stolen by time and absence. He had turned into a man of two worlds, belonging to neither.
He sat by the last remaining tree, the weight of years pressing against his brittle bones. “Good man, he was,” a passerby whispered in the breeze, but he barely heard. His heart had finally found its way home, but there was no soul left to greet it.
Many thanks Sikander for sharing your thoughtful piece. I am sure many of us identify with the wandering heart. The smells and sights of the one familiar place have been replaced by the warmth of a global frienship - a brotherhood difficult to define.
ReplyDelete