For the Man he is, the Man I'll be

For the Man he is, the Man I’ll be

The water droplet slid down the glass window as the next droplet came ahead. It seemed as if they were playing some game. Coming, sliding and going. The aroma of wet mud reminded me of the season it was. Rains and smoke, the combination I loved.
The radium of my watch was shining as I lay on my hardened mattress. It was my favorite watch. In fact, all my watches have been my favorites.

It would pierce my heart whenever I lost one. Dad got them all. By all, I mean each and everyone and including this one.

I always got so attached to the previous watch that I never felt the need to buy a new one. To my surprise, I realized that Dad never scolded me for this.
‘I wonder if you’ll do anything good in your life.’ I listened to this a lot, in fact, still do. He hates the fact that I make a lot of mistakes. This happens especially when he’s around.
His eyes squeezed with pain when I would lie. His mildly wrinkled face would lose its charm when I failed. When I think of my dad, I remember him being ashamed of me at times.
I’ve never made him proud and it’s something that pinches us both every morning.
I lit a cigarette and sat cross legged, staring at the fan’s oscillation and thought about us, the father and the son. I would always wonder if I could guide people the way he does. If I could deal with situations just the way he does. I’ve observed him silently. I’m sure his thick reading glasses in a black rectangular frame made him look the way he pictured himself to be at this age.

He had spent most of his life in our village with the sheer aim of developing it. He said he would always want the legacy to continue.
Dad hardly found anything good in me or maybe I never gave him a chance to do so, but he never expressed what he truly felt.
He smelled so masculine all the time. His almond shaped eyes would capture even the hidden. He was a man with big ambitions; not just for himself but for society. Dad doesn’t dye his hair. For him it’s fun to grow old, something to be accepted proudly. I once found a thick beige colored diary in which he wrote quite frequently, sipping ginger tea with mild sugar. He often said he wanted to write about himself. Dad was never a smoker, at least not when I was born. When he was bothered by something, he had rum with warm water. There was a tense aura around whenever he worked, I could see him biting his lip and tightening his eyebrows with a random shake of his left leg.

I lit another cigarette as the rain got worse. The radium continued to capture my attention. I missed dad. It was quite an awkward feeling because he was never too close to be missed.
Dad never liked me getting up late in the morning. I just realized that he still never woke me up. I think he enjoyed the way I slept, peacefully.
Maybe I was too busy in impressing him that I forgot he loves me. I forgot he’s my father and that he’ll always cherish my existence.
I’m sure he knows that I smoke and he’s waiting for me to realize how wrong it is. Just like he waited for me to realize that I love him and he loves me back.

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