Baba's Silence

In a small, humble home tucked away on the edge of a quiet village, there sat an old man on a creaky wooden cot under the shade of a neem tree. His name was Baba — a figure once tall and mighty in the eyes of his only son, Farukh. Time had curved his back, blurred his vision, and slowed his steps, but what it couldn’t touch was the warmth of his heart and the echo of memories he silently carried.

Farukh lived in the city now. He had grown into a busy man — a well-settled professional, caught in the rhythm of meetings, traffic, and deadlines. Once a month, perhaps, he would call. And if time allowed, he visited his childhood home. But Baba never complained. He never asked why the visits grew shorter and the calls less frequent.
He simply waited — in silence.

There was a time when Baba’s voice filled the home with laughter, advice, and songs of old films he hummed while working in the fields. Now, silence sat beside him like an old friend. The walls of the house still remembered Farukh’s childhood — the scribbles on the wall, the cricket bat in the corner, the mark where his height had been measured every year.

Baba remembered too. He remembered how Farukh once cried all night for a blue schoolbag, and how he sold his old watch to buy it. He remembered how he had walked barefoot to pay for Farukh’s college exam fees. Each sacrifice, each moment, was wrapped in quiet pride.

Now, the same Baba sat alone, watching the narrow village road, hoping it would someday bring his son home — not just for a visit, but for a moment of heartful presence.

One rainy evening, Farukh returned. His visit was unannounced. Baba was sitting by the door, wrapped in a light shawl, watching the rain fall — his eyes fixed on the drops as if they whispered old memories.
Farukh stood silently behind him, unsure of how to bridge the growing distance between them.
Baba sensed him, but didn’t turn.

After a long silence, Baba spoke — not in complaint, not in anger, but with a quiet nostalgia:

"The rain smells like your childhood today..."

Those words struck something deep in Farukh. He remembered the days he’d dance in the rain, his Baba chasing behind him with a towel and warm clothes. He remembered those evenings when they'd sit together, sipping chai, laughing at the sky's mood.

That night, Farukh didn’t leave.

He canceled his return ticket. The next day, he cleaned Baba’s room, fixed the broken cot, brought him new medicines, and made him tea. He helped him walk through the small garden they once tended together. He didn't say much, but his actions filled the silence that had grown too loud over the years.

Together, they looked at old photographs. One showed Baba in his younger days — tall, smiling, holding a toddler Farukh in his arms.
Baba didn’t say much. But Farukh noticed how he held that photo longer than the rest, as if touching it brought back a heartbeat from the past.

Each day after, Farukh slowed down. He woke up with Baba, sat beside him during meals, listened to his stories — even the ones he’d heard a hundred times before. The phone buzzed with office emails, but for once, Farukh let them wait. The only deadlines he now cared about were the moments he had missed — and the ones he could still make right.

One morning, Baba touched Farukh’s hand and said quietly:

"You came back... before it was too late."

Farukh didn’t reply. He just held Baba’s hand a little tighter.

Message:

In the rush to grow up, we sometimes leave behind the very souls who shaped us. They never ask for much — just time, a little attention, and the warmth of shared silence.
We wait for grand moments to show our love, while our parents quietly wait for a phone call, a visit, or even a shared cup of tea.
And by the time we realize the silence has grown too loud, we often find that what they longed for was never words — it was presence.