The Quiet Hero in My Home

 


There’s a silence in my home that speaks louder than any words. It’s the silence of my father’s sacrifices the kind that never asked for recognition, never demanded applause.

I often think of the poem “Those Winter Sundays” by Robert Hayden, where a father rises in the cold, quietly tending to the fire, unthanked. That poem is my father. My appa isn’t rich. He never chased luxury. But I never once felt poor. He gave up his comfort, his rest, and his needs for us. His savings were never his own; they were dreams folded into school fees, groceries, and a better life for his children.

He used to love sleeping in, but now sleep seems to have left him. His eyes carry tiredness, not complaint. He rarely buys himself a new shirt unless it’s Deepavali or a wedding. And yet, his heart overflows with giving.

There was a time when I thought he was boring. Now, I think he’s brilliant. He handled life in a way I could never replicate. I don’t even know where the borewell switch is, or how he wired our home, or whom to call when a wall must be built. But he did all this, and more, without making it seem heroic. That’s because real heroes don’t wear capes they wear faded shirts and a quiet smile.

Today, I ask myself, what can I give in return for all that he’s done? Nothing I do will ever measure up. Except these tears. This love. This truth.

No one can replace you, Appa. You’re my hero the one I never had the courage to call a hero to his face.

But today, let me say it loud:
I love you, Appa. You always were, and always will be, my everything.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Let Me Sleep, Not to Dream....

     Some nights, I don’t want answers I just want silence. Not the kind filled with buzzing thoughts, but the deep, weightless stillness that John Keats writes about in “To Sleep.” His lines feel less like poetry and more like a whisper to the weary .      Keats doesn’t glorify sleep as a dreamy escape filled with fantasies. Instead, he sees it as a quiet refuge from the noise of life. I remember one night, after back-to-back classes and an unexpected family argument, I sat by my window, emotionally exhausted. No words, no energy just the weight of being awake. That night, I opened Keats. His line, “Seal the hushed casket of my soul,” made me close my eyes. For once, I wasn’t trying to sleep. I was inviting it in like an old friend.      I’ve often found that poetry meets us where no one else can . Keats understood that some days feel too loud, too real. And what we need isn’t escape, but a pause a gentle covering of all that aches. His...
Read more

From Questions to Acceptance: The Quiet Strength Within

Today, I began writing my blog not with clarity, but with a curious uncertainty. I didn’t know where to start or what to write. Once, I was filled with questions. I constantly asked: How? Where? When? Why? What? These questions shaped my journey, my identity, my hunger to understand the world. But something changed. I’ve stopped asking. I’ve begun accepting. Life has slowly revealed its quiet wisdom to me not in answers, but in acceptance. I no longer seek explanations for everything around me. I no longer expect people to explain themselves, prove themselves, or live up to my vision of who they should be. Why should they? Everyone is walking their own path. It’s not my responsibility to evaluate their pace, their truth, or their struggle. I’ve learned not to expect, not to demand, not to act out of pressure or illusion. Instead, I’ve chosen to receive what life brings openly, peacefully. “I don’t expect, so I don’t act. I just accept.” That is my mantra now. I’ve found that ac...
Read more

When Hope Sings Softly Within !!!

     There are times in life when everything outside falls silent, dreams are delayed, plans fall apart, and people we trust walk away. Yet, even in such silence, I’ve felt something quietly fluttering within me a small, unwavering voice that says, “Move forward.” Emily Dickinson’s poem “Hope is the Thing with Feathers” captures that feeling so perfectly. She compares hope to a bird that perches in our soul, singing wordlessly through the fiercest storms.      What struck me most is how Dickinson says this bird “never stops at all.” That line stayed with me. In my own life, when I felt lost after rejections, personal losses, or simply long nights filled with doubt, I didn’t always have someone to lean on. But this soft inner song remained. It never asked for anything in return. Just like Dickinson’s bird, hope never demanded food, praise, or reward. It just kept singing.      I’ve learned that true hope doesn’t come from external success o...
Read more