---------- Forwarded message --------- From: N Sekar <[email protected]> Date: Wed, Feb 18, 2026, 11:54 AM Subject: Fwd - Let us act before it is too late, a very poignant message To: Kerala Iyer <[email protected]>, Narayanaswamy Sekar < [email protected]>, Suryanarayana Ambadipudi <[email protected]>, Rangarajan T.N.C. <[email protected]>, Chittanandam V. R. < [email protected]>, Mathangi K. Kumar <[email protected]>, Mani APS <[email protected]>, Rama (Iyer 123 Group) <[email protected]>, Srinivasan Sridharan <[email protected]>, Surendra Varma < [email protected]>, Colinjivadi Mahadevan <[email protected]>
*Sunday Beautiful Story* Long story but worth reading. *The Last Voice Note* The first time I noticed my father’s voice changing, I didn’t take it seriously. It was subtle—like the fading of an old song you’ve heard too many times. He spoke a little slower, paused a little longer, and sometimes searched for words that used to come naturally to him. I assumed it was age. He was sixty-eight. He had worked hard all his life. A little tiredness in the voice seemed normal. My father was not the kind of man who expressed love with words. He expressed it through actions. He would wake up before sunrise, read the newspaper with discipline, water the plants, and then sit with his steel tumbler of tea as if the whole world could wait until he finished. He was strict when I was growing up, sometimes too strict. He believed affection spoiled children. So he never hugged me. Never said “I love you.” Never praised me even when I scored well. But he never missed a school fee, never let me sleep hungry, and never allowed my mother to feel alone in responsibilities. When I moved to Mumbai for work, the distance between us became a silent habit. I would call him once a week. He would ask, “Everything fine?” I would say, “Yes.” He would say, “Okay.” And the call would end. Sometimes I would feel guilty. Sometimes I would feel irritated. Sometimes I would think, What is the point of calling when we have nothing to say? But I kept calling because it was tradition, not emotion. Then one afternoon, my mother called and said, “Your father is not well.” Her voice was calm, but I could sense the fear hiding under it. I asked what happened. She said, “He forgot the way back from the market.” I laughed lightly, trying to reduce the tension. “Arre, that happens sometimes.” My mother didn’t laugh. She said softly, “He forgot the name of your cousin yesterday.” That sentence landed like a stone in my chest. I booked a ticket and went home the next day. When I entered the house, my father was sitting on the sofa, watching television without really watching it. He looked at me and smiled, but it wasn’t the sharp, commanding smile I remembered. It was softer. Almost helpless. He said my name correctly, but his eyes looked as if they were searching for the right memory behind my face. I hugged him suddenly. It was the first time in my adult life. He stiffened for a second, then patted my back awkwardly, like a man who didn’t know the language of hugs. The doctor confirmed it a week later. Early-stage Alzheimer’s. The word sounded clinical, almost harmless. But the doctor’s tone wasn’t harmless. He explained slowly, like someone delivering a sentence. He said there was no cure, only management. He said the disease would progress. He said we should be prepared for changes in personality, memory, and behaviour. My mother nodded silently, clutching her handbag. I sat there feeling numb. My father sat outside the cabin, smiling at a nurse, unaware that his future was being discussed like a file. Over the next months, the changes came like small thefts. He forgot the keys. He forgot names. He forgot where he kept his wallet. He began asking the same question repeatedly. At first, it was frustrating. I would answer once, then twice, then the third time my patience would crack. My mother would look at me sharply, warning me with her eyes. And I would feel ashamed. The worst part wasn’t his forgetting. It was how he reacted when he realised he had forgotten. My father, who had once been the strongest man in my world, began to look embarrassed. Sometimes he would laugh to cover it. Sometimes he would become angry. Once, he accused my mother of hiding his papers. My mother cried in the kitchen that night. I heard her muffled sobs and felt my chest burn with helplessness. I returned to Mumbai because work didn’t stop for anyone’s pain. But now I call home daily. Sometimes my father answered. Sometimes he didn’t. When he did, the calls became strange. He would ask, “Where are you?” I would say, “Mumbai, Baba.” He would say, “Why?” I would explain. He would forget. He would ask again. Some days he would speak normally and I would feel hope. Some days he would sound lost and I would feel fear. One evening, while I was stuck in traffic, I received a voice note from my father on WhatsApp. It was unusual. He rarely used the phone for anything beyond calls. I opened it immediately, expecting some confusion. His voice came through. “Beta… I don’t know how to say this… I am forgetting many things. Your mother tells me. I don’t like it. I feel… small. But I want to tell you one thing before I forget even this.” There was a pause. I could hear him breathing. “I was strict with you. I know. I thought if I became soft, you would become weak. But you became strong anyway. I am proud of you.” My hands began to tremble. My throat tightened. He continued, his voice cracking slightly. “I never told you… I love you. Not because I didn’t feel it. Because I didn’t know how to say it. But I feel it. I feel it every day.” Another pause. “If one day I look at you and don’t recognise you… Don’t feel hurt. It will not be because you are not my son. It will be because my mind is… leaving me.” I pulled my car to the side of the road. My eyes blurred. I couldn’t see the traffic lights clearly. Then his voice returned, softer, almost like a child. “Keep this message. When I forget, you remember.” The voice note ended. I sat in my car and cried like I hadn’t cried in years. Not quiet tears. Real, shaking sobs. I felt grief for the father I was losing. I felt guilt for the years I wasted being distant. I felt anger at life. And above all, I felt love—pure, aching love—because for the first time, my father had spoken the words I had secretly waited for all my life. A few months later, I came home for a weekend. My father was sitting in the courtyard, staring at the plants. He looked peaceful. I sat beside him. He turned to me and smiled politely. “Hello,” he said. My heart dropped. “Baba… It’s me,” I said, trying to sound normal. He stared at my face for a few seconds, then looked away. “I’m sorry,” he said gently. “I don’t remember.” It felt like someone had punched my chest. I swallowed hard. My eyes burned. I wanted to scream, to beg, to shake him and demand my father back. But I remembered the voice note. If one day I look at you and don’t recognise you… Don’t feel hurt. So I smiled. “It’s okay,” I said softly. “I’m your son. And I’m here.” He nodded politely, as you nod to a kind stranger. That night, when everyone slept, I sat alone in my room and played the voice note again. My father’s voice filled the darkness. His love reached me from a time when his mind still belonged to him. I held my phone close like it was a sacred object. The next morning, before leaving, I went to him again. He was eating breakfast. I sat beside him and fed him one bite with my own hand. He looked surprised, then smiled. “Thank you,” he said. I whispered, “Always.” On the train back to Mumbai, I realised something that changed me. We spend our lives waiting for perfect moments to express love. We wait for retirement, for holidays, for calmer days, for less work, for less ego. But life doesn’t wait. Memory doesn’t wait. Time doesn’t wait. And sometimes, the person you love most will leave you slowly, even while still breathing. That voice note became my temple. My father’s last clear gift. And whenever I feel regret rising, whenever I feel the pain of his forgetting, I play it again and remind myself: he may not remember me now, but he loved me when he could. And that love is enough to last a lifetime. *Reflection* Life’s most painful losses are not always sudden deaths. Sometimes, they are slow disappearances—where a person is physically present but mentally drifting away. In such moments, our real test is not only patience, but love without conditions. Alzheimer’s doesn’t erase the bond; it only erases the memory of it. The responsibility of remembering then shifts to us. Never postpone love. Never assume there will be time later. Speak the words. Show the affection. Forgive the old wounds. Because one day, the person you love may not remember your name—but your heart will remember every chance you didn’t take. The greatest peace comes from knowing you loved fully, while there was still time. 🙏🏼🌺🙏🏼🌺🙏🏼🌺🙏🏼 Yahoo Mail: Search, Organize, Conquer <https://mail.onelink.me/107872968?pid=nativeplacement&c=US_Acquisition_YMktg_315_SearchOrgConquer_EmailSignature&af_sub1=Acquisition&af_sub2=US_YMktg&af_sub3=&af_sub4=100002039&af_sub5=C01_Email_Static_&af_ios_store_cpp=0c38e4b0-a27e-40f9-a211-f4e2de32ab91&af_android_url=https://play.google.com/store/apps/details?id=com.yahoo.mobile.client.android.mail&listing=search_organize_conquer> -- You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google Groups "Thatha_Patty" group. To unsubscribe from this group and stop receiving emails from it, send an email to [email protected]. To view this discussion visit https://groups.google.com/d/msgid/thatha_patty/CABC81ZeeXDn6G4qnH5_ZA30pZRYBu0_K4vDq77L9cvumGiQo2g%40mail.gmail.com.
