The distant son - ZorbaBooks

The distant son

Kunal sat in his small apartment in Bangalore, staring at his phone screen. The third missed call from his mother glowed ominously. He sighed, rubbing his temples. Work had been relentless—endless deadlines, demanding clients, the pressure to perform. His father’s hospitalization was the last thing he needed right now.

“He’ll be fine,” Kunal told himself. “It’s just a minor issue. Mother is exaggerating.”

But deep down, he knew. His father was not young anymore. The man who had once carried him on his shoulders, who had worked overtime just to afford Kunal’s engineering college fees, was now lying in a hospital bed, weak and needing blood.

Back in his hometown, Meera Devi sat beside her husband’s bed, her wrinkled hands trembling as she adjusted his oxygen mask. The hospital room was cold, the fluorescent lights harsh against the sterile white walls. She glanced at her phone—no reply from Kunal.

“He must be busy,” she whispered to herself, though her heart ached with doubt.

Her husband, Ramesh, weakly turned his head towards her. His voice was a fragile thread. “Did he say when he’s coming?”

Meera forced a smile. “Soon, he will be coming. He’s just tied up with work.”

Ramesh closed his eyes. A single tear escaped, rolling down his weathered cheek.

The neighbours had been kind. Mrs. Sharma brought food every day, and Mr. Kapoor helped wheel Ramesh for tests when Meera’s frail arms couldn’t manage. But their pitying glances cut deeper than any words.

“Where is your son?” they would ask gently.

“He’s coming,” Meera Devi would reply, her voice losing conviction each time.

One evening, as she sat alone in the hospital corridor, exhaustion weighing her down, she broke. Silent sobs shook her body. Thirty-five years of love, sacrifice, endless nights spent worrying over Kunal’s future—and now, when they needed him the most, he wasn’t here.

Kunal finally called back the next day. His mother’s voice was hollow, drained of emotion.

“How is he?” Kunal asked.

“The doctors say he needs blood. His levels are very low.”

“Can’t the hospital arrange it?”

A pause. Then, softly, “They need a donor. Family is preferred.”

Kunal hesitated. “I have an important meeting tomorrow. Can’t Uncle or someone—”

“Kunal.” His mother’s voice cracked. “Your father keeps asking for you.”

Guilt gnawed at him, but the fear of falling behind at work was stronger. “I’ll come next week, Ma. Promise.”

The line went silent. Then, just before she hung up, he heard her whisper, “What kind of son have we raised?”

Days passed. Ramesh’s condition worsened. The doctors spoke of complications, of time running short. Meera’s hands grew rougher from sleepless nights, her prayers more desperate.

One morning, as she stepped out to fetch tea, she overheard two nurses talking.

“Poor woman. No one comes to visit except her. Not even her son.”

“Some children forget their parents when they go far,” the other replied.

Meera stood frozen, the words piercing her soul.

That evening, Ramesh stirred, his breathing laboured. He clutched Meera’s hand.

“Call Kunal,” he whispered.

With trembling fingers, she dialled. No answer.

Ramesh’s grip loosened. His eyes, once full of pride for his son, now held only sorrow. “We gave him everything… Why…?”

His last breath was a sigh of broken love.

When Kunal finally arrived, it was too late. The house was filled with mourners, but his mother sat alone in a corner, staring blankly at the wall.

“Ma…” Kunal’s voice trembled.

She didn’t look at him. “You came.”

“I didn’t know it was this serious—”

“You didn’t want to know.” Her voice was ice. “Your father died waiting for you.”

Kunal fell to his knees, tears streaming. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…”

Meera stood slowly, her grief a silent storm. “Sorry, won’t bring him back.”

As she walked away, Kunal realized—no promotion, no salary, no success could ever fill the void of his father’s last unanswered call.

And for the first time in his life, he understood the true cost of his choices.

But it was too late.


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Rashmi Sinha