I had always believed that my father would visit me somehow.
I had felt his presence in my home in Canada.
I could imagine him sitting on the sofa.
I could imagine him being around me.
There was no ticket to buy anymore.
No journey to plan.
No distance that could prevent him from coming.
I had always thought that if he could, he would find his way to me.
And on April 21, he did.
I met my North Star in a dream.
But it was not only my father who came.
A schoolboy came too.
He was wearing a white shirt and khaki trousers.
He had a schoolbag.
He was full of energy.
He was happy.
He went joyfully towards my daughter’s room.
And then my father came into the media room.
He looked so beautiful.
So fit.
So peaceful.
He wore a light blue shirt.
He had minimal jewellery.
There was sacred ash and vermilion on his forehead.
He looked clearer.
Softer.
Younger somehow.
He smiled.
And I touched his hands.
It felt real.
Just serenity.
Warm.
Alive.
He was in a hurry to return.
I told him to come and stay with me.
“Come here, Pa.”
I wanted him to remain.
“I want to come with you,” I told him.
But he held my hands.
And he told me that there was still so much left for me to do.
He told me that I would have a great life.
And, in his own way, he told me that my daughter would become a great police officer.
An IPS officer.
That was my father.
Even after death, he was still thinking about my future.
Still thinking about my daughter.
Still giving me something to look forward to.
He smiled exactly the way only Appa could.
Then he left.
I woke up with goosebumps.
Not frightened.
Not broken.
Peaceful.
It felt less like a dream…
and more like a farewell.
I felt that something extraordinary had happened.
It was surreal.
And yet it felt real.
After that, something inside me became quieter.
I had been waiting for him.
I had been expecting him.
And perhaps he came when I needed him most.
I had wanted to say goodbye.
But perhaps the dream was not a goodbye.
Perhaps it was his way of telling me:
You are still here.
You still have things to do.
Live.
So I began trying.
I began to understand that living well was not abandoning him.
Living well was perhaps the greatest way I could honour him.
I stopped asking him to come back.
I began asking myself one question.
How do I honour a man like him?
The answer came slowly.
Not by carrying endless guilt.
Not by building monuments.
Not by preserving every possession.
But by living.
By becoming the kind of parent he had been.
By loving generously.
By forgiving quickly.
By helping quietly.
By making my daughter feel as safe as he made me feel.
His story had ended.
Mine had not.
And perhaps…
That was the final lesson he came to teach me.