Down through the memory lane

 You never expect that one phone call to arrive on a lazy afternoon. I had just dozed off, mid-nap, when my phone rang. It was my mom.

"Hello..." I answered, still half-asleep.

But the call got cut.

I thought I’d continue sleeping and call her back later. But something inside nudged me, and I called again.

This time, my younger brother picked up. His voice was unusually slow. “Papa ko hospital mein admit kiya hai...”

I sat upright. “Papa ko?” I shouted. “Kyun?!”

The shout startled my sister, who was napping beside me. She woke up, confused and worried.

My brother continued, “Unki sugar low ho gayi thi. Mummy doctor ke paas hai. Aayengi tab phone karengi.”

And he cut the call.

I tried to explain the situation to my sister, but before I could finish, my mom called back. This time, she was speaking herself. Her voice—shaky, urgent, and on the edge.

“Ha kya hua mummy?” I asked.

She broke down mid-sentence. “Pappa ko admit kiya hai... unka BP aur sugar dono ekdam se badh gaya... office mein the tab... bolne mein jeebh jad lag rahi hai... paralysis ka attack jaisa lag raha hai...” And then she started crying.

I could hear her pain breaking through the phone line. “Mummy, tu ro mat na,” I said, but by then my sister and I were already crying. Tears just flowed.

“Main aau kya?” I asked, without thinking. The second I said it, I felt ashamed. Why was I still asking?

“No,” she said. “Abhi ICU mein hai. Hum yahape hain.”

And she hung up.

There was no space for hesitation anymore. My sister and I looked at each other and both said it at the same time: “Chal didi, jaate apan.”

We didn’t even know what to pack. We threw in two or three clothes and booked the first night bus we could find. Fortunately, we got tickets. Mom called again, trying to convince us not to come. She said she would handle everything.

But we knew. We had to go.

The bus ride was silent. We were sitting together, but our thoughts were far away. I tried to sleep, but as I closed my eyes, all I could see were flickering memories—glimpses of my father.

How he used to save me whenever mom got angry and beat me.

No matter how much he shouted, he always brought me late-night stationery for school the next day.

He never once questioned my decisions—just stood behind them like a wall.

Whenever I visited home, all he wanted was to feed me. He’d go on listing dish after dish—khichdi banau? bhaji banau? chaha piyegi?—until I’d get irritated, but deep down, I’d smile.

His two phone call dialogues were fixed, like rituals:

“Khana khaya?”

“Paise chahiye kya?”

And when I did ask for money, he’d always send more than I needed. No questions. Just quiet giving. Just love.

And so many more memories. A hundred small, irreplaceable things.

Everything played like a slideshow on fast forward.

And in that moment, it hit me: how fragile everything really is.

I’ll be writing Part 2 soon—about reaching the hospital, the night that followed, and the moments that changed something in me forever.