The Last Paper Boat

The river had always been Arjun’s favorite place. Not because it was beautiful—it wasn’t. It was muddy, loud, and full of buzzing insects. But it was theirs. His and Dadaji’s.

Every monsoon, when the first heavy rain soaked the earth and the frogs began to sing, Dadaji would pull out a stack of old newspapers from under his bed. He’d smooth them out, humming softly as he folded the paper into small boats. Some were lopsided, some perfect. Then he’d hand them to Arjun, who would run barefoot to the riverbank, his laughter mixing with the rumble of thunder.

“Each boat carries a wish,” Dadaji would say, smiling with that gentle sparkle in his eyes. “Maybe the river will carry it to the sky.”

This year, the house was quieter. The corner where Dadaji sat was empty. His chair leaned slightly to one side, as if still waiting for him to come back. Arjun’s mother had covered it with a shawl, but Arjun still looked at it every morning, expecting to see a familiar hand wave him over.

It was the first monsoon without him.

Arjun sat by the river alone, the rain falling in slow, fat drops that kissed his cheeks. The air smelled of wet earth and mango leaves. He held a torn piece of paper in his lap—an old page from Dadaji’s diary, found tucked inside a book. His throat ached as he stared at it.

He tried to remember how to fold the boats. His small fingers struggled to get the creases right. The first one tore. The second one folded crookedly. But the third—well, it looked enough like a boat to make him smile through the tears.

“This one’s for you, Dadaji,” he whispered.

He crouched by the river, feeling the mud ooze between his toes, and gently set the boat afloat. The little paper vessel rocked on the ripples, swaying uncertainly before finding its rhythm. It moved slowly, bravely, into the current.

His mother’s voice called from afar. “Arjun! Come inside—it’s raining harder!”

He didn’t move. He wanted to see it disappear, just as Dadaji’s laugh had drifted from the house.

A stranger passing by stopped under an umbrella. “Hey there, you’ll catch a cold, son. What are you doing?”

Arjun looked up, his hair plastered to his forehead. “I’m saying goodbye,” he said simply.

The man hesitated, then knelt beside him. “To whom?”

“My Dadaji,” Arjun whispered. “He used to make paper boats. This one’s the last one.”

The man’s eyes softened. He tore a page from his own notebook and began folding, hands moving slowly and surely. When he finished, he handed it to Arjun. “Then make another,” he said. “Goodbyes don’t have to be lonely.”

Together, they set both boats into the current. The stranger smiled, tipped his umbrella in farewell, and walked away.

Arjun stayed. He watched the boats float side by side until they vanished into the distance, two tiny dreams carried away by the monsoon.

That night, he couldn’t sleep. The sound of rain on the roof reminded him of Dadaji’s humming. He got up quietly, went to his desk, and began folding again—this time without tearing, without stopping. One boat, then another, then ten more. Each one a wish, a memory, a thank-you.

By dawn, his windowsill was filled with little paper boats, lined like soldiers waiting for their turn. When the sun rose, he ran back to the river and let them all go, one by one.

He didn’t cry this time. He smiled. Because somewhere, he felt Dadaji was smiling too.

Moral: The people we love never really leave us. They live on in our memories, our rituals, and in the courage it takes to keep saying goodbye—with hope instead of pain.