Healing Dialogue for the Abondoned Father

"I taught generations to find meaning in laws of motion, yet in the stillness of my own sunset, I longed not for answers, but for footsteps at the door — not out of duty, but love. I was not forgotten; I was placed gently in the museum of memory, where names are respected but voices are no longer heard."

Setting:

It is a golden afternoon in a quiet village near Dharwad.

A koel calls from somewhere far. A breeze carries the smell of tamarind leaves.

Raghavendra Master, 74, in his pressed-but-old white kurta, walks slowly, stopping once to sit on a rock and catch his breath. He carries a cloth bag with guavas, pickle, and a letter he never posted. He reaches Madhukar’s thatched hut — a humble sanctuary surrounded by tulsi plants and silence.

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Characters:

Raghavendra Master — Retired science teacher, widower, lives alone. A man of discipline, sorrow, and suppressed tears.

Madhukar the Healer — A former scientist turned wise hermit, lives simply, listens deeply.

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[Scene begins as Raghavendra steps into the courtyard. Madhukar looks up from watering a tulsi plant.]

Madhukar (smiling gently):

You bring guavas… or stories today, Master?

Raghavendra:

Both.

But the guavas are sweeter.

Madhukar (seating him):

Let’s test both.

The soil listens.

The tea will too.

[They sit under the neem tree. Clay cups in hand. Long silence.]

Raghavendra:

They didn’t call again.

Not for Ugadi. Not even to ask if I made holige.

Even the maid asked, “Your children live abroad, no? Must be so caring…”

I nodded.

But I wanted to scream, Madhukar.

I wanted to say, “My fridge is full, but my ears are starving.”

Madhukar:

And your heart?

Raghavendra:

It’s learnt how to pretend.

I talk to the TV.

I laugh at old comedy serials like I used to laugh with my wife.

At night, I walk from room to room —

just to feel like the house still has people.

Madhukar (softly):

Do you miss being needed?

Raghavendra (eyes moist):

Every minute.

I used to explain Newton's laws to students.

Now I whisper to ants near the sugar tin.

I was once someone.

Now… I am someone people used to know.

Madhukar:

When did this emptiness begin?

Raghavendra:

I think it began when she left…

But it deepened when I saw the video of my grandson’s first birthday.

My son had invited friends, colleagues, even their driver’s wife.

But forgot to mention his own father.

My name didn’t even come up.

I watched that video ten times.

Not for joy.

For proof — that I was being erased gently.

Madhukar (closing his eyes briefly):

You were not forgotten.

You were put in a museum — respected but not touched.

Loved in speech, but not in daily life.

Raghavendra:

Yes.

They say, “Appa, you’re in our prayers.”

But when I cough blood, the prayer doesn’t bring hot water.

When the electricity goes, no prayer brings a torch.

Madhukar:

Master, do you remember when you were 30?

Busy teaching. Raising your children.

How often did you sit with your father?

Raghavendra:

Rarely.

Only when Amma insisted.

I thought he had nothing to say.

Just old stories. Same ones again and again.

Madhukar:

And now?

Raghavendra (whispers):

Now I understand those stories were not repetition.

They were his last attempts at relevance.

He wasn’t boring.

I was deaf.

[A long pause. Raghavendra looks away, ashamed.]

Raghavendra:

I wrote a letter to my son last week.

Didn’t post it.

In it, I wrote — “I’m proud of you, beta. But I miss being your home.”

I didn’t send it because…

I don’t want to guilt them.

I just want to be remembered… freely.

Madhukar:

You want to be chosen. Not pitied.

Raghavendra:

Yes.

I want them to say, “Let’s visit Appa this weekend,”

Not because of a reminder.

But because their heart aches a little at my absence.

Madhukar:

Then perhaps it is time to stop waiting by the door.

Maybe you sit in your own centre now — not as the abandoned —

but as the one who loved without transaction.

Raghavendra (quietly):

But how, Madhukar?

How do I unlearn decades of longing?

Madhukar:

Not overnight.

But slowly —

You teach the birds your stories.

You feed a hungry child at the temple.

You write letters, not to be sent, but to clear the fog.

You become the father of the village, not just of two sons.

Raghavendra:

But what if I die alone?

Madhukar:

Then you will have lived honestly.

And that is a better death than dying in a room full of people who are elsewhere in their minds.

Raghavendra (breaking down softly):

Do you think they’ll cry for me?

Madhukar (gently touching his shoulder):

Yes.

But by then, you would’ve already forgiven them.

And become the sky.

[They sit in silence. A tear rolls down Raghavendra’s cheek. He does not wipe it.]

Madhukar (pouring more tea):

Tell me, Master…

What did your wife used to say when you were sad?

Raghavendra (smiles faintly):

She used to say, “Drink tea. It won’t fix anything. But at least your hands will be warm.”

Madhukar (lifting his cup):

Then let us keep our hands warm…

Until the heart stops shivering.

[They sip quietly. The wind rustles the leaves. Somewhere, a cow moos like it knows the truth too.]

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