This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 17; the seventeenth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.
His father's room was out of bounds for everyone in the house.Even the maid who came for cleaning every week,wouldn't dare to go anywhere close to it.Once he tried sneaking into it,unsuccesfully.
His father,his very own,always remained a mystery to him.Someone who was physically near,but emotionally,as far as one could imagine.
the unfolding of the mystery...
Now as he stared at his father's coffin,he was reminded of all those years,when his mother took silent agony,when he grew from being indifferent to this man to even hating him.when his mother died,the rollicking laughter of his father that filled the room.Now that his father was dead,he could move from this house,from all those painful memories and finally relinquish his dream of writing in new york.He wanted to smile,but he didn't.The promise he had made to his mother of looking after the man who was now dead,was over.But there was one thing still missing.The room.The child inside him made him want to see the room,which so captivated this emotionless man.He opened the door to be welcomed by a strong scent of paint,as he looked around and switched on the light,there lay hundreds of paintings,all exquisite in their own right,each drastically different from the others,almost seeming like they've been painted by different people.some were painted with his father's name,and others with names he'd never heard of.The mystery dawned on him after all.His father wasn't the villain,he was the victim,of the numerous selves that rested inside him.He was a victim of their moods and outbursts.If only he had supported him in his adulthood,understood his anguish.The tears came out slowly..