The Things Left Unsaid

My uncle had spent most of his life in the fields.

Even after crossing sixty-five, he still woke before sunrise. His hands knew the soil better than they knew the clock.

But these days, the fields were no longer his only concern.

My aunt was often ill. Her medicines had become a monthly expense—one that did not wait for a good harvest.

They had two sons.

The elder lived in the city and had a good government job. His wife was a teacher. The younger son lived with my uncle and aunt in the village. His income was modest, but he was there for the everyday things—taking his mother to the doctor, bringing medicines, and looking after the house.

My uncle never compared his sons.

But he had begun to expect something from the elder one.

“Send a little every month,” he once told him. “Not much. Your mother’s medicines are now a regular expense.”

His son agreed.

But nothing became regular.

Sometimes five thousand came. Sometimes ten. Sometimes nothing came until my uncle called.

One evening, he called again.

“Son, if you could send something every month, we could manage the medicines ourselves.”

“Babuji, whenever you need money, just tell me.” “I don't want to keep telling you.”

“You are my father. If you need something, you should tell me.” My uncle's voice hardened.

“Should a father have to remind his son every month that his mother needs medicine?”

The line went quiet.

His daughter-in-law was not comfortable with the idea either.

“We have our own expenses,” she told her husband. “We can't keep sending money every month.”

“He isn't asking for himself. It's for Ma's medicines.”

“I know. Help them when they need it. But why does there have to be a fixed amount every month?”

The son said nothing.

There were old things between his wife and his parents.

When she had lived with them, there had been small disagreements. Words that had stayed with her.

Once, when she had spent money on something for the house, my uncle had remarked,

“People who earn a little money start thinking they run the whole house.” He had probably forgotten the sentence the next day.

She had not.

Another time, something she had done wrong became a story told in front of relatives.

She smiled through it. She remembered it too.

My uncle had his own habit of making matters worse. Whenever someone asked about his sons, he spoke too freely.

“My elder son is good, but his wife doesn't understand these things.” Sometimes he mentioned money.

Sometimes an old disagreement.

The words travelled. One day, his son called.

“Babuji, why do you tell people about everything that happens in our house?”

“What did I tell them?”

“You know what you told them.” “I only said what happened.”

“You may think it's nothing. But when ten people hear it, it becomes something else.”

My uncle became quiet. Then he said,

“So now I cannot even speak about my own life?” “Speak to me, Babuji. Don't speak to the whole village.” “You have changed since you went to the city.”

“No, Babuji. Maybe I have just become tired.” After that, their conversations became shorter.

Then one afternoon, my aunt's health suddenly worsened. The doctor changed her medicines.

My uncle called his son.

“Your mother's medicines have changed.” “Send me the prescription, Babuji.”

The prescription went. The money came.

The medicines arrived.

That night, my uncle sat awake beside the medicine packets.

He had received the money. Still, he was troubled.

He did not want to keep asking.

A few weeks later, his son came to the village.

My uncle was sitting outside on the old wooden cot. For a moment, his face lit up.

Then he said,

“So, you finally remembered the way to the village?” The son stopped.

“Why do you always have to say something like that?” “It's nothing.”

“It isn't nothing, Babuji. I come here and you make me feel guilty. I send money and you say it's not enough. I don't send money and you say I have forgotten you. What exactly do you want from me?”

My uncle looked at him for a long moment.

“I want my son's help without having to ask for it.” “I have never made you beg.”

“I know.”

His voice softened.

“Your mother needs medicines every month. I don't want a lot. I just want to know that this part of her care is yours too.”

The son looked down.

“I thought sending money whenever there was a need meant I was doing my part.”

“It is help,” my uncle said. “But every time I call, I feel like I am asking for a favour.”

His son was silent.

After a while, he said,

“I'll send something every month.” My uncle nodded.

Then his son said,

“And you, Babuji… please stop telling people about our problems.” My uncle looked at him.

After a pause, he said, “Okay.”

Neither spoke for a while. The son stood up.

He touched his father’s feet.

My uncle placed his hand on his head. “Take care, Babuji.”

“You too, son.”

The motorcycle started.

My uncle stood at the gate and watched him go.

The sound grew fainter, then disappeared beyond the bend. He kept looking at the road.

He remembered the words he had thrown at his son over the years—some spoken in anger, some without thought.

He wished he could call him back. But there was nothing left to say.

The road lay empty in the evening light.