There was something utterly serene about watching him sleep. I could do that for hours together. Since he was not much of a happy man and my eyes had to be tormented throughout the day with the sight of his distressed face, I treated them well at night by watching him fall back to tranquility, to calmness, to dreams. He used to sleep like a baby, cuddled up innocently.

Even as we grew old, never did I ever get to witness a day that he spent in complete peace. So in our later years too, I would stay up a bit each night to watch a few moments of his rare placidness.


His last night was special. As I watched him sleep that night, I could notice a tinge of bliss on his face. I assumed it to be the outcome of a happy dream. I too slept away happily.

The next morning, it was found that he wasn’t breathing anymore.
When they were carrying away his body, I couldn’t make myself accompany the procession. Witnessing the funeral pyre burning him down was the last thing I ever wanted to do. I stayed back in our room and started digging around for all his little belongings, in order to strengthen the feel of his presence around me.

I found his diary. Though I had always known that he maintained one, I had never cared enough to peep into it. But right then, I had to. I wanted to.

Most of the pages were about us, some of them were specifically about me. Flipping through the pages, I finally came across something that made me cry my soul out, as well as provided it with some selfish comfort.

The page read, “She likes to watch me sleep. I know that. Sometimes, when I’m in the raw stage of my night sleep, I can feel her palm caressing my forehead. It makes her happy to watch me at peace for some moments. I hope my death, whenever it comes, meets me in my sleep. That will make my departure less painful for her.”

Strange it is, but at times, wishes are granted.


Image Source:



Share With Friends

Leave A Comment

Your email address will not be published.

Send this to a friend