The Day I Could Not Stay

The Day I Could Not Stay

A Memory of Love… and Loss

There are some goodbyes that do not happen in a single moment.
They unfold slowly…
And only years later do you realise, you had already said goodbye.

They sit quietly inside you…
like the smell of first rain on red earth…
like the distant sound of a temple bell at dusk.

This is one such memory.

It was about a year after I got my first job in Thiruvananthapuram.
I was young then. Life was just beginning.

I was staying in a small lodge near the bus stand.
A simple room.
A narrow cot.
A wooden table.
A ceiling fan that turned slowly, as if even it was tired of the heat.

That Saturday afternoon was unbearably hot.

The sun had bleached the courtyard outside.
The laterite stones looked almost white.
Even the air felt heavy.

I was sitting on my bed, reading a book, when I heard a knock on the door.

It was not a confident knock.

It was soft.
Hesitant.
Almost… afraid.

I opened the door.

And for a moment, I did not recognise the man standing there.

It was my maternal uncle… My mother’s Elder Brother.

He stood there with a tired smile.

His shirt was crumpled and half-buttoned.
His hair had thinned and fallen unevenly.
His eyes were dull… and slightly red.

There was a faint smell of toddy.

“My son…” he said softly.

“You must excuse me. It is terribly hot… I had a little… just a little… on the way.”

He wiped his face with an old handkerchief.

“I have come only for a minute,” he said.
“Just one small matter.”

He did not look into my eyes.

Then slowly, almost like a child asking for something, he said,

“Do you have fifty rupees, moné? Just till Tuesday… I don’t even have money for the auto… can you come with me?”

He tried to laugh.

But the laugh broke halfway.

I did not ask anything.

I changed my shirt, locked the room, and went with him.

We took an auto and went to a small hotel where he was staying.

I gave him the money.

He took it… without even counting.

“Thank you,” he said.
“How long it has been since we met… since Easter, perhaps?”

“Yes,” I said quietly.

He nodded.

“I thought of coming many times… but something or the other…”

Then suddenly he stopped.

He looked down.

And after a long silence, he said something that I have never forgotten.

“My son… do not believe anything I tell you.”

I looked at him, surprised.

He continued, his voice low.

“I said I will return the money on Tuesday. That is not true.
I wrote letters saying I was sick. That was not true either.”

His eyes filled.

“I lied… I needed money for a drink.
I know you also struggle… still, I trouble you.”

He paused.

“I am ashamed… but my shamelessness is bigger than my shame.”

Then he looked at my face.

“My son… I cannot lie when I see you.”

The room became very quiet.

From outside, a KSRTC bus passed with a long horn.

Life was moving as usual…
But inside that small room, something heavy had settled.

After a moment, he cleared his throat.

“Perhaps…” he said, “you could buy me a small bottle from that shop?”

Only then did I notice the wine shop near the corner.

I went.

Bought it.

Bought it.

The moment he drank, something changed.

His face relaxed.

Like a tired man who had suddenly found shade.

He began speaking loudly… happily.

“Yesterday I went to Thrissur football ground!” he said.
“Santhosh Trophy match! Kerala vs Bengal! What a game!”

He laughed.

I knew it was not true.

But I did not correct him.

There was a new pair of sandals in my bag.

I took them out.

“Mamman,” I said, “I bought these… but they are tight for me. Will you use them?”

His eyes lit up.

He removed his old, broken chappals and put on new ones.

“A perfect fit!” he said.

Then suddenly his voice softened.

“My son…” he whispered.

“These are not tight for you.”

He looked at me… his eyes wet.

“You are giving them because your heart is too big.”

“Sometimes love speaks without words…
and the heart understands what the lips hide.”

He sighed deeply.

“You have all tried to save me,” he said.
“But a man who falls into a pit… sometimes learns to love the darkness.”

We left the room and took an auto.

The evening lights had begun to appear.

Shops were opening.
People were moving.
Life was flowing.

Suddenly, he said softly,

“My son… I have robbed you again.”

I did not answer.

He continued,

“What children God has given me!
And what an uncle they received… a drunkard who only gives shame.”

He wiped his face.

“I am not worthy of you.”

“Life sometimes gives good children to broken elders…
perhaps to test how much love can endure.”

As we passed a small wine shop, he suddenly shouted,

“Stop!”

He got down and went inside.

I waited.

This happened again.

And again.

Each time he returned… more drunk…
but also more emotional.

He spoke about everyone.

“Your brother… brilliant fellow!”
“Johny… what a man!”

Then suddenly he began crying.

“You children never scold me…
You never show anger…
You only help me…”

“Some children carry their elders like old trees carry broken branches…
silently… without complaint.”

That night, I stayed with him in the hotel.

The next morning, he woke up early.

Fresh.
Calm.
Almost like a different man.

We walked to the railway station.

Before boarding the train, he held my arm.

Then suddenly… he leaned his head on my sleeve and began to cry.

“My son…” he whispered.

“I want to see your mother once.”

His voice trembled.

“Will you arrange it?”

“Of course,” I said.

“But…” he said nervously, “I must stop drinking first… I must shave… wear clean clothes… maybe your shirt… I don’t want her to see me like this.”

He wiped his eyes.

“Goodbye…”

But as I walked away, I heard him whisper,

“Arrange it, my son…
I will behave…
I will keep quiet…
I promise…”

“Even the most broken man carries one small wish—
to be seen with dignity, by the people he loves… just once… before it is too late.”

On the way back, memories flooded me.

He was not always like this.

He was once a school teacher.
A gentle man.
A playful uncle.

I had lived with him in his family as a child.

He had held my hand.
Fed me.
Taught me. Played with me.
Loved me like his own son.

But life had been unkind.

His wife, my aunt, was a pious woman from a noble family.

Unfortunately, they had no children of their own.
Small disappointments.
Loneliness.
Slow wounds inside the heart.

And then… alcohol.

What began as comfort…
became habit.
Then became a need.
Then became a prison.

“Alcohol does not enter a life like a storm…
It enters like a quiet guest…
and slowly becomes the master of the house.”

A week later, I took my mother to see him.

That day… he was sober.

Clean.
Smiling.
Full of stories.

We spoke of old days.

For a moment…
It felt like the past had returned.

Years passed.

I got married.
Had children.

One day, we went to see him again.

My aunt said, “He went out… he will come soon.”

We waited.

Morning passed.
The afternoon passed.
Evening came.

He did not return.

My aunt said softly,

“He wanted to see your children very much…
Can you stay tonight?”

I hesitated.

Life had its own demands.

“We will come again,” I said.

And we left.

We never saw him again.

A few months later, the message came.

He was gone.

Even today…
That one regret stays with me.

Why didn’t I stay that night?

Why didn’t I wait… just a little longer…
so that he could see my children…
so that his last wish could become real?

Now, when I think of him… I do not remember the drunk man.

I remember the man who once held my hand.

The man who called me “my son.”

The man who tried… even at the end… to become better.

Even today… that one decision stays with me.

That one evening.

That one “no.”

“Regret is the quietest pain.
It does not shout.
It simply sits inside you…
and never leaves.”

I still remember his voice.

“I will behave well…
I will keep quiet…
I promise…”

And sometimes, when the evening grows silent…
I feel he is still standing at my door,

knocking softly.

And I understand something deeply now.

“Alcohol not only destroys the person who drinks…
It slowly breaks the hearts of everyone who loves them.”

And yet…

“Even in the ruins of such a life,
Love does not die.
It waits…
hoping for one last moment of dignity.”