Every evening, by the old park near the railway station, people would see him.
A ragged man with tangled hair, torn clothes, and eyes that seemed lost in another world.
Children laughed and called him “mad man.”
Shopkeepers avoided him.
Strangers crossed the road to stay away.
But no one noticed the little notebook he always carried — pages filled with shaky handwriting.
No one noticed how he looked at the setting sun with the calmness of a poet.
No one cared to ask why he whispered to himself, “Wait for me… I’ll come back.”
His Story
Years ago, he wasn’t mad.
He was a teacher, a husband, and a father.
His life was simple, filled with chalk dust, laughter, and the sound of his daughter calling, “Appa!”
But one accident on a rainy night changed everything.
A truck… a hospital… a silence that never ended.
His wife and daughter were gone.
From that day, his mind broke.
The world called it madness.
He called it waiting.
The Park Bench
He sat on the same bench every evening because he believed one day his daughter would run back to him.
Sometimes, he would spread out his palm and whisper, “Hold my hand, mole… careful while crossing.”
Passersby shook their heads, “Poor mad man…” and walked away.
But if anyone sat near him, they’d hear words so tender, so full of love, it didn’t sound like madness at all.
One evening, a little girl selling flowers stopped by.
She looked at him curiously and said,
“Uncle, why do you smile at the empty air?”
He chuckled softly,
“Because sometimes, mole, love doesn’t need eyes to see… it needs a heart to believe.”
For a moment, the “mad man” didn’t look mad at all.
He looked like a father… still waiting.
They called him mad, but in truth, he was just a man who loved too much, and lost too much.
A ragged man with tangled hair, torn clothes, and eyes that seemed lost in another world.
Children laughed and called him “mad man.”
Shopkeepers avoided him.
Strangers crossed the road to stay away.
But no one noticed the little notebook he always carried — pages filled with shaky handwriting.
No one noticed how he looked at the setting sun with the calmness of a poet.
No one cared to ask why he whispered to himself, “Wait for me… I’ll come back.”
His Story
Years ago, he wasn’t mad.
He was a teacher, a husband, and a father.
His life was simple, filled with chalk dust, laughter, and the sound of his daughter calling, “Appa!”
But one accident on a rainy night changed everything.
A truck… a hospital… a silence that never ended.
His wife and daughter were gone.
From that day, his mind broke.
The world called it madness.
He called it waiting.
The Park Bench
He sat on the same bench every evening because he believed one day his daughter would run back to him.
Sometimes, he would spread out his palm and whisper, “Hold my hand, mole… careful while crossing.”
Passersby shook their heads, “Poor mad man…” and walked away.
But if anyone sat near him, they’d hear words so tender, so full of love, it didn’t sound like madness at all.
One evening, a little girl selling flowers stopped by.
She looked at him curiously and said,
“Uncle, why do you smile at the empty air?”
He chuckled softly,
“Because sometimes, mole, love doesn’t need eyes to see… it needs a heart to believe.”
For a moment, the “mad man” didn’t look mad at all.
He looked like a father… still waiting.
They called him mad, but in truth, he was just a man who loved too much, and lost too much.
