I always wanted to send one. But every year I end up not sending. I would remember a week before his birthday, but as the date drew closer, I always ran into some excuse. Some unexpected travel, or work load at office or I simply forgot. I had even thought of sending a belated post card. But it remained just as a thought.
As we live in this busy world, we tend to take everyone’s existence for granted. And I took his. But only now do I realize that nothing in this world is forever. It has a course, some of them long, some of them short. And we have no clue of what would happen the next day or how an ordinary Saturday morning would change your life forever.
He’s generally not the one displaying so much emotions. He did not care for his birthday, he simply would say (sarcastically), ‘What’s in a birthday?’. But somewhere I have this odd feeling that he may have loved receiving one. Or may be he would have not bothered. I don’t know. I will never know. For he is now at some place beyond my reach. And I will always wonder if my father longed to receive a birthday card.
I sauntered towards that pile of paper. Its been a week since I had reached Muscat. We were leaving this place for good. I slowly flip through the papers to sort out journals from question papers. And to my bewilderment, I see a pink card. A birthday card I had sent last year. I must have forgotten that I sent it. I leafed through it, hoping he had read every line written on it.