To My Bapi, On Your Birthday

Bapi,
Another year, another birthday without your hands to hold,
yet everything around me still whispers your name.

The morning light feels softer today,
as if the sky itself remembers your smile
and is trying gently to place it back on my lips.

I close my eyes and you return to me—
in the quiet chair by the window,
in the way you called my name,
in the calm strength that wrapped around our home
like an invisible shawl that never slipped from our shoulders.
You left this world, Bapi,
but you never left my heart.
You live in the pauses between my breaths,
in the decisions I make when no one is watching,
in the courage I try to find when life feels heavier
than my two hands can carry.

Every lesson you gave me
has become a small lamp I carry inside.
When I doubt myself,
I hear your voice telling me to stand tall.
When I fall,
I feel your unseen hands picking me up,
brushing the dust from my knees like you did
when I was a child.

Today is your birthday, Bapi,
but it feels like my day of gratitude.
Gratitude for every sacrifice you made silently,
for every tear you hid behind a smile,
for every dream of mine
that you carried as if it were your own.

There are moments when the ache is sharp—
when I want to turn and find you sitting there,
when I wish I could hear your advice,
or simply rest my head on your shoulder
and let the world fade away for a while.
In those moments, I remind myself:
you are not in front of me,
because you are already within me.

Happy Birthday, my dear Bapi.
I light this day with memories of you—
with stories, with tears that taste of love,
and with a promise:
as long as this heart beats,
you will never be a past tense in my life.

You are my forever present,
my silent guide,
my first home and my last comfort.
Until my final breath joins the wind
and carries me back to you,
I will keep you alive
in every step, every word, every dream.

Happy Birthday in my heart, Bapi.
Stay close.
I am still your child,
and you are still my world.