“When will Dad come back?”
My five-year-old son, Ketan, sobbed seeing his father leaving with a suitcase.
My husband, Mukesh, traveled to Ratlam for a week once a month. Ratlam’s exquisite zari sarees and dress materials fetched a reasonable price back in Ahmedabad, where Mukesh ran a textile business from home.
Generally, Mukesh would be careful not to let the child know he was leaving. I would then spin stories to cheer up the kid saddened by his father’s absence.
“Your dad has gone to get toys for you,” I would say, knowing that Mukesh always bought something for him.
Ahmedabad did not lack toys, but toys bought elsewhere were a novelty to the kid. Ketan eagerly looked forward to his father’s return.
Today, I pacified the sobbing child with similar words. Mukesh kept turning back, feeling guilty for being the cause of this outburst.
“I should have left without his knowledge,” he said. I waved to him, indicating that I would take it easy.
He left, and I got busy telling Ketan about his father’s trip to pick up the toy airplane he had asked for. The child was thrilled.
Five days later, Mukesh called to inform us that he would return the following day. He had bought the airplane for Ketan. The boy’s eyes sparkled with excitement. He kept asking about his dad’s time of arrival.
It was the last Wednesday of February 2002. Mukesh had said that he would board the train from Ratlam a little after midnight and would be expected to come home in the morning.
” Dad will be home by 9,” I assured my son. He immediately responded, “I won’t go to school tomorrow.” Stroking his auburn hair, I nodded, giving my consent.
At about 8:10 a.m., while the child was still sleeping with a contented smile on his face, earth-shattering news was conveyed.
A mob set afire the Sabarmati express, which Mukesh had boarded from Ratlam and was running late, at Godhra junction. Innocent people traveling in the train perished, leaving behind moaning kith and kin.
The metal locket and chain around my husband’s neck had stubbornly fought the wrath of the fire, helping me recognize the half-charred body. A partly damaged toy airplane was in a burnt bag that Mukesh had closely held.
The badly mutilated body that was handed over to me the following day was in no state to be brought home.
Ketan watched with fear as relatives swarmed in and wailed. He felt bewildered as there was no sign of his dad, who was expected to come the previous day.
The frightened child was all the more shattered to see his ever-vivacious mother in tears. Coming to me, he cuddled in my arms and asked,
“When will Dad come back?”.
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Photo By: Tadeusz Lakota
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This is an entry for Five00-7, a writing event hosted by ArtoonsInn. Check out the event prompt and guidelines here: https://prowritersroom.com/five00-7/
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