Arvind hadn’t planned to stay more than two days after the funeral. But grief didn’t leave all at once and neither did the paperwork.
His father’s study smelled the same as it did twenty years ago. Like dust, ink, and that eucalyptus scent that had always defined him.
The desk sat like a monument in the corner. Papers were stacked with precision, pens capped and aligned in a tray, everything neat and deliberate. Just like him.
It was on the second evening, while cleaning out the bottom drawer, that Arvind found something.
A stack of identical black notebooks, held together by an old rubber band, their edges worn with time.
Each one labeled in his father’s handwriting:
1978, 1983, 1991, 1999, and so on.
He opened the first.
Plan for quitting bank job and applying to Tata Institute. MBA with a focus on development. Pros: greater purpose, possibility of NGO work. Cons: family obligations, financial instability. Action: Revisit after appraisal cycle ends.
What?
Page after page… details, scenarios, pros and cons. A meticulously drafted life that never happened.
The next notebook had a plan for starting a travel agency with a college friend. Another detailed applying for a job in Canada. A fourth included a full relocation budget for moving to Pune to join a cousin’s publishing startup.
Everything his father had dreamed of doing was there but not once had he spoken of any of it to anyone Arvind knew.
Arvind sat down on the floor, back against the wall, flipping pages deep into the night.
His father had always seemed composed. Dependable. Distant, yes, but never unhappy.
But these notebooks told a different story.
Not quite regret, but something that lingered. Like he’d always been on the verge of something… but never stepped more than two steps toward it.
The next morning, over tea, Arvind mentioned it to his uncle, Ravi Mama.
“Oh, those?” his uncle chuckled. “Yeah, your dad was a dreamer. Not that you would know, he kept it all inside.”
“He wanted to open a bookstore,” Mama added offhand. “Had a name picked out and everything: Inkland. Ridiculous name. I told him, ‘What, you gonna cover Disneyland with ink?’ But he was obsessed with it for a while. Really wanted to cover his Disneyland with ink.”
Arvind laughed. His father, the man who reminded him to file taxes a month early, had wanted to sell novels?
“He dropped it, though,” Mama said. “Said the timing wasn’t right. Said he’d revisit it after you started school. Then when you were in college. Then when you got your job. You know how it goes.”
Yeah, Arvind knew.
He thought of the folder on his own laptop: Book Ideas.
Six outlines. A seventh named Project One Day.
He thought of Meera, waiting for him to finalize a wedding date. Her growing frustration at his “just give me a few more months” tone. He wasn’t even sure why he hesitated. He loved her. Mostly. Or enough, maybe.
But lately, he kept coming back to the same sentence:
This isn’t the life I imagined.
Only… he’d never actually imagined one clearly.
He kept floating through his decisions.
That evening, Arvind returned to the study. He didn’t open the notebooks this time. Just sat beside them, quietly.
He thought about his father’s silences. About all the things he never said, never did, never risked.
Maybe that was the legacy.. a quiet inheritance of hesitation. A life shaped by what was almost pursued.
Arvind pulled out his own notebook from his bag. It was mostly filled with to-do lists, meeting notes, reminders.
At the bottom of a page, he scribbled:
“What am I actually waiting for?”
There was no answer.
The next morning, he called Meera. Told her everything. About the notebooks. About the bookstore. About how close he felt to repeating the same quiet retreat.
Meera didn’t say anything dramatic. She just listened. Then said,
“Well… if you want to make a different choice, just don’t take three decades to make it.”
He laughed.
They decided to meet that weekend.
Back in the study, he opened the oldest notebook again.
At the bottom of the final page, in slightly lighter handwriting, his father had written:
“Still possible. Maybe next year.”
It was dated three years ago.
Arvind placed the notebook back in the drawer.
As a reminder…
He didn’t know what his new life would look like. But now, at least, he knew what it shouldn’t.
He would make plans, yes. But this time, he would see them through.
The events that led me to writing this story : https://ajayan.substack.com/p/the-four-hidden-fears-blocking-your?r=36ippk