✒️:. Syed Majid Gilani
The journey did not start on a highway. It began quietly, deep inside Faraz’s heart, where memories of home and distance had lingered for three long years.
Three years is a long time in a child’s life—long enough for silence to settle, for doubts to grow quietly, and for lies and fabricated stories to start feeling like truth.
During this time, cases were filed and allegations were made. Words like careless, absent, and non-providing were attached to his father’s name. Courts would decide in time. Truth, too, has its own pace. Everything waited.
But destiny chose a simpler path first: Papa and his son, alone on a road, far away from Kashmir.
Faraz returned to his roots not because anyone asked him, not because he was persuaded, but because he wanted to. He came home.
Soon after, Papa and his son set out on a journey—just the two of them—in their modest car. Papa had intentionally planned to take Faraz to every place they had once visited together—hotels, dhabas, bazaars, shops, picnic spots—so that every memory, every small moment, could quietly return.
They crossed highways and small towns, tikka shops and eateries, hotels and roadside dhabas, tourist spots, and countless unnamed roads.
At one stop, near a temple, they ordered local traditional snacks. Tasting them, Faraz was carried back to a time when Papa had once fed him the same snacks with his own hands. Memories of all their trips, big and small, returned—the way
Papa cared for the family, the quiet gestures of love he had always given, without ever asking for recognition.
At every place, memories whispered back.
“This road…,” Faraz murmured. “You took us all through here.”
“This dhaba…,” he said, his eyes moist. “We sat here together.”
“The toy shop… where I got my red remote car.”
“The little garment shop… where my blue jacket was bought.”
“The tikka shop… where the chutney dropped and spilled on my trousers,” he added, laughing quietly.
“And the barber shop… at the narrow lane corner… where I cried and wept,” he said softly, remembering Papa’s gentle presence that day.
Papa smiled gently. He did not explain. He never defended himself. He simply did what he had always done—paid the bills, ordered food, made sure his son ate well, asked if he was comfortable, and waited patiently.
The journey moved on, each mile carrying them closer to the past. Papa drove, and Faraz watched, quietly absorbing everything.
As they drove, the journey took them to one familiar spot. Papa paused, looked around, and said softly, “Here… we once clicked a photograph.”
Faraz froze. The place was exactly the same. They stood at the same spot, took the same pose, and clicked another photograph. Earlier, the frame had held everyone—Papa, Faraz, his younger siblings, and their mother. Today, it held only two.
Yet something quiet and deep happened. The old photographs—stored in phones, albums, and memory—came alive. One by one, they returned to those places: the same roadside bend, the same café corner, the same hotel corridor, the same street where laughter once echoed.
Yesterday and today stood side by side—not erased, not replaced, just changed.
Slowly and unmistakably, Faraz began remembering: school fees paid on time, uniforms neatly arranged, books and tutors ready, trips planned without hesitation, money spent without counting, and love given without conditions.
The accusations he had heard could not survive the truth of memory. That night, alone with his thoughts, Faraz broke down. The words written in files felt empty. The accusations collapsed under the truth he had lived himself.
“My Papa was never careless,” he whispered. “He was always there—always providing, always spending, always present.”
He looked again at the photographs—then and now. Earlier, many faces, one family. Today, two faces, carrying the same story, the same truth.
“Papa,” he said softly, his voice trembling, “you were always there—yesterday, today, and always.” Papa said nothing. He didn’t need to.
He had always remained calm and quiet, and time had steadily revealed what Papa had always done, despite all odds. The roads had spoken. The photographs had spoken. Memory had quietly shown the truth.
At last, a son had come home. Faraz needed no vindication, no clarification, no explanations. His own blood had recognised the truth, recalled the memories, and seen for himself what had always been—a father who stayed quiet, a father who endured, a father who never stopped being a father.
Lies may wound for a while, but time is merciless to falsehood. Truth does not argue—it waits. And in the end, it stands clear, complete, and undeniable.
Syed Majid Gilani is a government officer by profession and a writer-storyteller by passion. He can be reached at syedmajid6676@gmail.com.
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