From the Rocking Chair (1)

I remember.

It was around 11 pm. Mom asked me to quickly come to the drawing room. The lights in the room were off. He always switched them off when he sat in his rocking chair at night. Mom was standing at the entrance of the room. She asked me to listen. He was sitting there by himself, listening to his ghazals and singing out loud. It was a Jagjit Singh song. I wish I knew which one. I would play it every time I miss him. We had never heard him sing earlier. We smiled and enjoyed watching him enjoy his music.

He spent a lot of his time by himself on his chair, deep in thoughts, reading the papers, looking outside the window, listening to the cuckoo sing, enjoying the sound of the rain fall and the smell of the first rains. All from his rocking chair. He loved nature and his solitude.

I remember.

It wasn’t uncommon for him to lose his sleep at night and spend his sleepless nights sitting in his chair. It wasn’t peculiar that night either. He lay by myself in his chair, probably deep in thought. He shut his eyes and reveled in the silence of the night. Only this time, he didn’t open them again.

He left in peace, from his rocking chair.


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