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Vijay Mishra, once a strong and respected man, had now crossed the age of 60. His daily routine included waking up to temple bells, making tea, and reading the newspaper on his creaky old chair. But behind this simple life lay a growing pain — the pain of being surrounded by family, yet feeling completely alone.
Everything had once been perfect. He had two sons, Rahul and Karan — well-educated and well-settled in big cities. Vijay had spent his entire life working hard for them — their education, their weddings, their dreams. Every penny of his pension was used for their comfort.
But when it was time for the sons to return that love and care, they began stepping back.
One day, Rahul said, “Papa, our flat is small. Why don’t you move back to the village? It’ll be peaceful for you.”
Karan added, “Yes, Papa. Your health needs a quiet environment. The village is better for you.”
Vijay knew it wasn’t about peace — it was about getting rid of him. Still, a father’s heart doesn’t get angry. It just breaks quietly.
He returned to the old ancestral house in the village — a big, aging mansion filled with dusty memories. The house that once echoed with laughter now echoed only silence. Every evening, power cuts would throw him into darkness, and only the ticking of an old clock kept him company.
One rainy night, the power went out again. Vijay lit an old lantern and slowly walked through the dim corridors. He reached a locked trunk. Inside were old letters, fading photographs, and a diary — his late wife's diary. Every page reopened old wounds.
Suddenly, he heard a whisper —
“Do you feel lonely?”
He turned sharply. No one.
But the voice returned.
Each night, the voice spoke to him again.
A new whisper. A new secret.
It felt like the house itself wanted to talk.
One day, gathering courage, Vijay broke open the lock of the basement. It was cold, dark, and damp. In a corner lay a wooden box. Inside was a letter — written by his own father, who had also spent his last days alone in this very house.
The same pain.
The same story.
Only the generation had changed.
Vijay realized that this house had silently witnessed generations of neglect — stories of old parents left behind by their children.
He clutched the diary, now more than just paper — it was truth inked in time.
The last page read:
“One day, we all become memories. The only difference is who remembers and who forgets.”
Vijay kept the diary close to his heart. He stopped waiting for calls. He stopped hoping for visits. He decided to live his final days with dignity — with his memories, without complaints.
Moral of the Story:
As long as parents are needed, they are loved.
But when they need love, they're forgotten.
A Note to Readers:
The real villain here isn’t time — it’s the fading compassion in relationships that dies quietly with each passing year.
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