The Lamp in My Father’s Room

The Lamp in My Father’s Room

The house smelled of old wood, rain-soaked soil, and memories.

Arif hadn’t returned home in almost eight years. The city had become his world—skyscrapers, meetings, deadlines. He had gone to chase success, to become “someone,” as he used to say to his father during their arguments.

His father never stopped him.

Not when Arif first left for university.

Not when he got a job in Karachi.

Not even when he missed Eid three years in a row.

But now, his father was gone.

He stood at the threshold of the small house in the village, the keys still cold in his hands. No one came to greet him. No one waited inside. Just walls. Just silence. And memories that he had buried deep.

He pushed open the wooden door. It creaked like a tired old man, groaning with every inch.

Dust floated in the air like forgotten dreams. The living room was exactly the same. The prayer mat was folded neatly. A pair of old slippers still lay by the door. The smell of incense lingered in the corners.

But it was his father’s room that drew him.

He walked in slowly.

There it was — the lamp.

Still glowing.

Still warm.

How?

He blinked in disbelief. A small oil lamp burned softly on the side table. Someone had lit it recently. Or perhaps… it had never been turned off.

Beside it lay a worn leather-bound diary. Its edges curled, pages yellowed.

He sat on the bed, which creaked under his weight. He opened the diary. The first page simply read:

> “For Arif,

in case he ever returns.”

His hands trembled.

He turned the page.

> “March 18th

Arif left today. He said he wants to become someone. I didn’t stop him. A father should never chain his son. But the house feels empty already.”

Another page.

> “June 5th

It’s Eid tomorrow. I made kheer like he loves. I know he won’t come. But I’ll keep it in the fridge… just in case.”

Another page.

> “December 9th

He didn’t call on my birthday. I waited till midnight. Maybe he forgot. That’s okay. He must be busy. Big people have big things to do.”

Page after page, love disguised as longing.

No bitterness. No anger. Just a quiet, constant waiting.

Tears blurred Arif’s vision. His chest tightened.

He had been busy… but for what?

A promotion?

A better apartment?

Respect from strangers who didn’t even remember his name?

He flipped to the last page.

> “I keep the lamp burning every night. Maybe it will guide him home someday. Maybe he will walk in and say, ‘Abba, I missed you.’

Maybe he will sit beside me and just talk. About anything. Or nothing.

If he never comes… that’s okay too. The lamp will still burn.”

The ink had smudged. As if written with tears.

Arif stood up, walked to the lamp, and cupped its warmth in his hands.

It wasn’t just a lamp.

It was his father’s love — unshaken, unwavering, still waiting even after death.

He looked around the room. It didn’t have much. Just a bed, a small prayer rug, a wall clock frozen at 2:17, and a shelf of worn-out books.

Yet, this room held more peace than any five-star hotel he had ever stayed in.

Arif sat down on the floor, diary in lap, lamp by his side.

He whispered, “Abba… I missed you too.”

The silence wasn’t so heavy anymore.

The house didn’t feel so empty.

The lamp still burned — but something inside Arif had lit up too.

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Moral of the Story:

Sometimes, we leave behind those who love us the most, in search of things that matter the least. By the time we return, all that remains is a lamp — a symbol of love, of forgiveness, and of silent prayers whispered into the dark.