A Father’s Quiet Prayer On a Monsoon Night

A Father’s Quiet Prayer On a Monsoon Night

Dear Lord,
I stand before You tonight, not as a perfect man,
but as a father with trembling love
for my son who still carries the soft scent of powder
and the gentle glow of sunset on his shirt.

Grant me strength, not loud, but enduring,

Like roots that always  hold the earth they love.

So I may hold him steady
When life’s monsoon winds arrive.

Teach me patience, Lord,
for he still spills milk on the dining mat,
Still asks ten questions before brushing his teeth,
Still wants “Papa, one more story…”
Even when my eyes burn with office hours.

Give me kindness, not the loud kind,
but the quiet coconut-oil-lamp kind,
that glows slowly in temple dusk,
So he learns that love is not noise,
But warmth that does not go out.

Help me guide him, not with shouted rules,
But with the softness of my own footsteps.
So that he follows goodness,

the way a child follows a kathakali drum
to its gentle rhythm.

Let him grow with courage, not the fighting kind,
but the kind that bows before elders,
carries his schoolbag himself,
shares his last banana chip,
with the friend who forgot his tiffin.

Teach me to hold him close, Lord,
like I did when he was one,
sleeping on my chest
while the fan turned slow
and rain tapped our tiled roof.

And teach me to let him go,
when the time comes,

when he cycles alone to tuition,
when he no longer needs my palm
on the back of his small shoulders.

If one day I cannot walk beside him,
may he still feel
my hand in his,
like cool sand under bare feet
on a Kerala beach at sunset.

For the only gift I truly wish to leave him
is not money, nor medals,
but a heart that knows gentleness,
and a soul that recognises God
in the sound of waves,
in Amma’s evening prayer,
and in the quiet love of a father.