Wearing the mourning cloak, shedding bloody tears, face emanating piercing pain, shoulders leaning down due to being overburdened with endless sorrows and standing before me like a death angel (who steals away the people whom one loves more than one loves himself), September , a month that is the whole year because it passes so slowly that I am made feel it's every moment, a month that blurred the difference of spring and summer and converted every season into autumn when ripest fruits fall first, arrives each year to revive the wound by scratching it to bleed that never healed. It will never heal, for Septembers keep returning vivifying and killing my dad simultaneously and continuously ,and I must live through them and bear the unbearable suffering of the loss of my dad. The wound would be there till sunrises, till sunsets , till springs arrive, summers go and September remains . Everything, in this month in terms of pain, suffering and sorrows, gets intensified. I writhe in pain and relive the worst times of my life that stole my dad away from me. What a pity! Pain endures only as long as life endures, only while the heart still throbs and feels the weight of loss. I know it will disappear only once I disappear. Death is solace. It ends the pain. Yet the pain doubles when I think of death, of my dad, of his going so early — who will lament for my dad after I too am gone? After the sun stops rising, springs don't arrive, autumns don't go and september never moves back or forth but stops everything, contains everything and loses everything. Will he be forgotten, no, i won't let that happen. I will write on him and let people read about him and weep about him. I will eternalise him by my words and words will not die so swiftly as humans do. Time is cruel. It dulls the pain for others, but not for me. Mine intensifies, because I loved intensely.I lost him when I needed him most, in my twenties. Since then, everything changed — my career, my dreams, my aspirations. His death carved a wound so deep that I still live in September, the month he died, and September lives in me. We never part. September will not go; it has been there since eternity and will remain until eternity. Perhaps the pain will remain until I too go, like my father.It was 30 September 2013 — the date that invited all suffering and began a chapter of my life that never ends. I am stuck in that moment, unable to move backward or forward. Human beings are strange creatures; time entraps them worse than space. It binds them so tightly that no machine can carry them back or push them ahead.He was only slightly ill, yet determined to go. Perhaps an archangel had whispered to him, or perhaps he had dreamt of walking into the garden of God, dining on the most delicious food, drinking the sweetest drink. He was a man of character — honesty, truthfulness, humility, and simplicity were his hallmarks. He adorned himself with the finest attributes of humanity, and surely he deserves a place near God, where bounties abound.I bear witness to his greatness, to the sacred life he lived, rearing us on lawful sustenance earned through hard labor. He was bold and daring, never giving up, always combating life’s challenges. These qualities live in me now; I wear them wherever I go. They have earned me respect, pride, and dignity.But September is not merely a month. It is an eternity in which I am trapped, unable to transcend. It is etched into my existence so deeply that I scarcely feel the other eleven months. Each day of September intensifies the suffering. I fail to focus, my imagination never unties itself from my father. It begins with that ominous date — 30 September — and ends drenched in sorrow. Books lie untouched, thoughts do not grow. Everything feels static, motionless, void.And in that void, only my father remains. His face hover before me, his tall, stalwart body moves in my memory. I still recall how strong he was, so tall that the coffin could barely contain him. His face, white and serene, framed by his beard, has never lost its freshness in my imagination. I was asked to take a last look at him — I still remember — but it was a naive act. Thirteen years have passed, yet his image has never left me.September is eternity. It is the only season, the only time, the only reality. I am caught within it and cannot move out. Nor do I wish to. For September keeps my father alive in me. In thoughts, imagination, walks, work, loneliness, and company — he is there in everything, before everything, after everything.

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