Yamshi sat beside me as I turned off the song. He apologized, explaining his mistake and advising me to be well-prepared for the animals and places I planned to explore. Curiosity got the better of me, and I asked about his family. He told me that his son was studying in the UK and that he had lost his wife. We spoke for several minutes, cherishing those rare moments of connection. Suddenly, Yuri called Yamshi for something urgent. I glanced at the picture I had taken earlier—a single photo, but it was the best ever for me. It was special; I lived in that moment, a feeling I couldn't express to anyone.
The boat arrived, and we returned to the hotel. Later, I called her, and we talked about the day's events. She reassured me that everything would be okay and mentioned she had a surprise for me. Though I didn't know what it was, I told her I had a surprise for her too. Inspired by our conversation, I decided to write her a letter, capturing the memory and feelings that only a letter can convey. I hate chatting, so I started writing to her, pouring my heart into each letter. It felt like every word was a thread, weaving a connection between us that distance couldn't break. The tactile sensation of pen on paper, the act of folding the letter, and the anticipation of her response became a ritual. I asked the hotel staff to post it, and with every letter sent, my excitement grew.
Days turned into weeks, and she began replying to Yamshi's address. Each time I received a letter, it was like a treasure chest opening. Her words painted vivid pictures of her days, her thoughts, and her dreams. I eagerly awaited her letters. After every shoot, no matter how exhausted I was, my first stop was always Yamshi's secretary. "Any letters for me?" I'd ask, my heart racing with hope.
The secretary, an elderly lady with kind eyes, would often smile and hand over the envelope with a knowing look. She could see the spark of joy these letters brought me. Reading her words, I felt an immense happiness that brightened even the most challenging days. Her letters were a lifeline, filled with love, encouragement, and stories that made me feel closer to her despite the miles between us.
During this period, things started looking up. Under the guidance of Charlie and Yamshi, I was growing, not just as a photographer, but as a person. They taught me invaluable lessons about life, work, and passion. Every shoot was a new adventure, every moment a chance to learn. Those were some of the happiest moments of my life, where everything seemed to fall into place.
However, as always, happiness was fleeting. I began to notice the subtle changes in Yamshi's health. At first, it was the occasional cough, the slight hesitation in his step, or the moments when he'd pause to catch his breath. Despite his strength and determination, his condition worsened. His once vibrant presence grew weaker, and his energy seemed to drain away with each passing day.
One morning, I found him bedridden, his face pale but still managing a smile when he saw me. The room, usually filled with his lively spirit, felt heavy with an unspoken sadness. I spent hours by his side, trying to offer him comfort, though words seemed inadequate. He would often reassure me, "Don't worry about me, Shinlay. Focus on your journey."
Days turned into weeks, and his condition deteriorated further. Watching him struggle, the man who had been a mentor and a father figure to me, was heart-wrenching. He ended up bedridden in the hospital, surrounded by machines that beeped and whirred, a stark contrast to the man full of life I had known.
Visiting him in the hospital became a part of my routine. Each time I walked into his room, I braced myself for the sight of him lying there, frail and fragile. Yet, he always greeted me with a smile, his eyes twinkling with the same warmth and wisdom. "Shinlay, it's time for you to go. You've learned so much. Now you can fly on your own," he would say, his voice weak but filled with conviction.
"Sir, I don't know what I'm going to do. I still haven't learned everything," I replied, my voice trembling, trying to hold back tears.
"Child, you must learn every day. Life is not what you plan; you live in the moment and enjoy everything. It's time for me to go," he said, his voice filled with wisdom and finality, gripping my hand with surprising strength.
Leaving the hospital each time was harder than the last. I would sit on a bench outside, staring at the sky, feeling a deep sense of loss and helplessness. It felt as if God was being cruel, taking away the very person who had become an anchor in my life. The pain in my heart was overwhelming, but I knew I had to move on. I had to honor his words, his teachings, and his faith in me.
Back at the house, I began packing my bags, the weight of the world on my shoulders. The only thing that brought me solace was my camera, a gift from Yamshi that now felt like a piece of him I could carry with me. Yamshi's secretary had already arranged my tickets. The time had come to say goodbye to Charlie, who was leaving the next day. Our farewell was formal, but laden with unspoken emotions. For Charlie, it was just another chapter in his life, but for me, it was the end of an era.
I didn't inform anyone of my arrival. Lost and confused, I stood at the airport with two bags, contemplating my next move. Without balance on my phone, I exchanged some currency and went to BK's apartment. He was surprised to see me and asked what had happened. After I told him everything, he too was disappointed.
"I don't know what to do, man," I confessed, feeling the weight of uncertainty.
"Go back to the sea," he suggested, trying to offer a solution.
"BK, there's no point. I hate it. You know why I joined the course, and during training, I suffered like no one else. If I go back, I will be dead forever," I responded, my voice filled with despair.
"I know, man, but you need to do something. You can stay here with me, but for how long?" he asked, his concern evident.
The pressure in my head was mounting, and I couldn't even cry. BK went out to buy some food and tried giving me solutions, but they all involved marine work, which I couldn't consider. I couldn't sleep; my eyes stayed open, thinking about various jobs just to survive. Eventually, I fell asleep for a few seconds and woke up to BK's alarm. He rushed around like a madman, getting ready for an office audit. I closed the door behind him, bought some food, and decided to call her.
She was stunned and asked me to come meet her. After freshening up, I took a five-hour bus journey, planning my next steps the entire way. I waited for her in a park near her college. She hadn't changed, except for the lines under her eyes. She sat near me, and we acted like strangers for a while. I told her what had happened, and she tried to calm me down and suggested ways to sustain myself. We talked for a while and then had dinner at a small restaurant before she saw me off at the bus stand.
As I was about to leave, she called out, "Shinu, just a moment."
I remembered the scene at the airport. She placed a hand on my cheek, smiled, and shook her head. Not for that—she hugged me and tapped my shoulder, saying, "Everything will be okay. There will be a way for everything."
Tears flowed freely. She touched my face and wiped my tears, saying, "Go, my boy," and tapped my cheeks. It felt like I could breathe properly again. Sometimes, you just need a hug to recover.
I planned to pursue wedding photography in Ernakulam. There were many companies near BK's apartment. Thanks to Yamshi's training and my stunning pictures, I secured a job easily and entered the field, focusing on candid photography. I captured countless moments at weddings and regularly visited Chippi. Sometimes, we went to the cinema, but mostly, we spent time at the beach. Listening to her talk about college made me wish I had gone to college too. I loved playing with her messy hair, always tucking it behind her ears.
The moments with her were limited, but they always left a pain in my heart, wishing I could stay with her forever. Life was both hurried and slow on Sundays with her. One day, at a wedding, I saw my dad. It was his friend's daughter's wedding. I smiled at him, and he looked at me. I knew it pained him to see his son like this. He left the wedding hall, and I couldn't focus on taking photos. I ruined so many pictures that evening.
I called Chippi, and she urged me to go home, saying my mother must want to see me. Despite wanting to be with them, I chose to stay away. I called my mother, but she didn't answer. They valued dignity over their son's happiness. That week was terrible, with immense pressure to complete editing. However, they paid well, so I worked hard and started saving for a trip. Chippi was also saving her pocket money for the trip.
Days later, I called my dad, but he didn't pick up. I always questioned my mistakes and why they behaved this way. It was painful for a son to experience this.
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