“The Empty Chair”

Hello. Today I have a story about a social issue. Plz read ittill end......

The winter sun was pale and slow to rise. A slight mist hung over the city as Arjun tightened his scarf, glancing back at the house. His 76-year-old father, Hari, was coming out slowly, supported by his cane, wearing the same faded brown sweater he had worn for years.

In the car, Hari carried a cloth bag — inside were his spectacles, some medicine, a worn-out photo of his late wife, and a diary. No one said much. Arjun focused on the road. Hari just watched the passing world, eyes distant, expression unreadable.

After about forty minutes, they pulled up outside a large cream-colored building with a rusted gate and fading paint. The signboard read: "Shantivan Senior Living Home."

Hari looked at it. “Where are we, beta?” he asked, softly.

Arjun hesitated. “Baba, I… I think this will be better for both of us. You’ll have people your age here. Nurses, caretakers, daily routines. You’ll be more comfortable.”

“But... this is an old age home,” Hari replied, more as a statement than a question.

Arjun nodded.

There was a long silence. Then, without protest, Hari got out. He didn't argue. He didn’t cry. Just nodded slightly and said, “Take care of yourself, beta.”

A faint smile, no anger, no resistance.

Arjun walked away with quick steps, as if the faster he left, the lighter his heart would become. But the silence inside him was deafening.

Years Later

Time moved forward, as it always does.

Arjun was now retired. His once-black hair had turned white, and his steps had grown slower. He lived with his son, Kunal, a rising corporate executive who was always in a rush — meetings, travel, deals. They rarely ate together. Conversations were short, sometimes polite, sometimes impatient.

Arjun often tried to talk about the past, share stories, or just sit quietly with his son. But Kunal would say things like, “Later, Dad,” or “I have a deadline.” Arjun would nod, smile faintly, and retreat to his room.

One Sunday, Kunal came home early. He entered Arjun’s room, carrying a travel bag.

“Dad,” he said with forced cheer, “let’s go for a drive. Somewhere peaceful.”

Arjun’s eyes lit up. “Really? Just the two of us?”

“Yes,” Kunal said, helping his father up. “Some fresh air will do you good.”

The car ride felt familiar. Too familiar. Arjun looked out at the city as they passed through quieter areas. Then, something struck him — the turns, the length of the drive, the narrowing road. A faint shiver ran through his spine.

When the car stopped, Arjun saw the same cream-colored building. The rusted gate had been replaced. The signboard was freshly painted.

"Shantivan Senior Living Home."

He looked at Kunal. The smile on his son’s face was nervous, forced.

“Dad, this place is really nice. They have yoga, gardens, full-time care. You’ll be comfortable here.”

Arjun didn’t speak. He looked at the gate. Then the bag in his lap. And then — at his son. For a long time.

“You know,” Arjun finally said, voice low, “I brought your grandfather here. Same gate. Same words. Same reason.”

Kunal’s smile vanished.

“I thought I was being practical. But I never visited him after that. He died in this place. Alone.”

“I didn’t know—” Kunal started, his voice cracking.

“I didn’t know either — until now,” Arjun whispered. “Now I understand everything.”

Arjun stepped out slowly. He didn’t argue. He didn’t cry. Just nodded and said, “Take care of yourself, beta.”

Kunal stood frozen as the gates closed behind his father.

The Empty Chair

Inside the room, Arjun noticed a wooden chair beside the window. It creaked as he sat. On the desk, etched faintly into the wood, were words he hadn’t seen in years:

“Forgive me, Baba. – Arjun”

His heart clenched. The air in the room felt heavier. The chair under him — the same chair his father had once occupied — groaned as if remembering every regret ever poured into it.

In that moment, Arjun didn’t feel betrayed by his son. He felt the burden of a mistake repeated. A lesson unlearned.

He looked out the window, tears quietly slipping down his cheeks. Not for himself, but for the cycle that he now knew he had set in motion years ago.

🧠 TCA – Takeaway & Call to Action

💡 Takeaway:

The way we treat our parents doesn’t vanish into silence — it becomes the future we create for ourselves. The pain we ignore may one day echo back in ways we never imagined.

🙏 Call to Action:

Before time makes you the one sitting in the "empty chair," call your parents. Hug them. Sit beside them. Listen. Visit them not out of obligation, but out of love. Break the cycle — while you still can.

Writer; Hamid khan

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