Chapter 41: The First Lesson He Never Forgo

"Not all teachings come with chalk and blackboards. Some are whispered into memory and held like breath."

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The rain had started again.

Not heavy. Not wild. Just steady— the kind that slips into every crack and makes silence echo.

Krish sat on the porch, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, a cup of warm tea cooling beside him.

He watched as the drops made perfect circles in the puddles, as the lemon tree trembled with silver beads, as the wind hummed a melody too soft for words.

It was on days like this that memory came closer.

He could feel it— the way it lingered just behind his thoughts, not demanding attention, but ready.

He closed his eyes.

And there it was: Papa's voice.

Not loud. Not even clear. Just there.

Like it had never truly left.

"Do you know what the first thing he taught me was?" he asked Ma, who was shelling peas beside him.

She looked up. "No. What?"

Krish smiled, his eyes still closed.

"He taught me how to wait."

Ma paused. Then laughed softly. "That sounds exactly like him."

Krish opened his eyes.

"It was the first real thing. Not alphabets. Not tying shoelaces. Not prayers.

But waiting."

He leaned back. Let the porch creak.

"I had asked for a kite. It was a cloudy day—like today. I thought he'd say no. But he said yes—just not yet.

He told me to wait for the wind. Said, 'The kite will go higher if you're patient.'"

Ma nodded. "He used to say that about everything. Even love."

Krish chuckled. "Even breakfast."

They sat in shared warmth. The kind that comes not from fire, but from memory shared aloud.

He continued.

"I waited. I remember sitting at the edge of the field, kite in my lap. Watching the sky, watching the trees.

And when the wind came— just a soft push— he said, 'Now.'

I ran. The kite soared. And for the first time, I understood that some things only rise when the time is right."

Ma smiled. "You never forgot that lesson."

Krish shook his head. "No. Because I keep living it."

He looked at the sky. Raindrops racing down.

"I waited for letters to stop hurting. For the silence to stop screaming. For the photos to stop pinching.

And now— they still echo. But they don't wound."

Ma reached over. Placed her hand over his.

"He'd be proud of you. You waited for your own healing. You didn't rush it. You let it grow in the cracks."

Krish didn't reply. Just held her hand.

That night, he opened the trunk at the foot of his bed. Pulled out the kite.

It was old. Creased. The paper thin as breath. But the string was intact.

He remembered every fold. Papa's hands. The way he had bent over the frame, fixing each corner with quiet precision.

Krish ran his fingers along the wood. It still smelled of the field. Of childhood. Of waiting.

He placed it on his desk. Sat beside it. Wrote:

"Dear Papa, Today I remembered your first lesson. Waiting. Not just for wind. But for words. For comfort. For forgiveness.

You taught me that rushing leads to tangles. But waiting— waiting lets things rise.

And you were right. My grief did not disappear. It learned to breathe. Because I gave it time.

Thank you for teaching me to wait for my sky."

He folded the letter. Tied it to the tail of the kite.

The next morning, when the sun broke through the gray, he walked to the field.

The same one. Different grass. Same soil.

He stood with the kite in hand. Felt the breeze. Waited.

Then, he ran.

And the kite rose— not high, not fast, but steady.

It wobbled. Curved. Then found the wind.

And flew.

He let out the string slowly. Watched it rise above the rooftops. Above the lemon tree.

He smiled. Not because it was perfect. But because it was enough.

Because it waited. And so did he.

And now, both were in the sky.