It was 3:00 PM at a large crematorium in Pune.
Rohan, 35, a Vice President at a top American software firm, had just rushed from the airport. He arrived straight at the cremation grounds, still clutching his expensive laptop bag, Ray-Bans shielding his eyes. His father, Sadashivrao (75), had passed away the previous night.
Rohan was sweating, constantly checking his watch. Sumit, an employee from ‘Moksha Event Management’—a funeral agency—was waiting. Sumit had handled everything: the wood was stacked, the priest was ready, and the body had been bathed and prepared for the final rites.
Rohan took a fleeting look at his father’s face. A couple of tears escaped his eyes, but his mind was elsewhere.
“Mr. Sumit, is everything ready?” Rohan asked urgently. “I have a return flight at 6:00 PM. I have a very important meeting tomorrow. Please, let’s hurry.”
Sumit stared at him in disbelief. This man didn’t even have three hours to spare for the father who had spent thirty years raising him. Sumit simply nodded.
The rituals were completed. Rohan lit the pyre. As the smoke rose into the sky, Rohan pulled Sumit aside and opened his checkbook.
“Thank you, Sumit. You arranged everything well. What’s the bill? 50,000? A Lakh? Tell me the amount; I’ll write the check now. I won’t be able to come back, so please handle the immersion of the ashes yourself.”
Sumit looked at Rohan with a strange, sad smile. He pulled an old file from his pocket and handed a letter to Rohan.
“Sir, there is no need for a check. Your bill is already ‘Paid’.”
Rohan froze. “Paid? Who paid it? My uncle?”
“No, sir,” Sumit replied. “Five years ago, your father came to our office. He was very ill and could barely walk. He asked me, ‘What is your package? I want to make sure my son doesn’t face any trouble. Can you arrange everything?’ He paid the 50,000 rupees in advance that day and left this letter with a request: ‘Give this to my son when he arrives. And if he cannot come, please perform my last rites yourself.’“
With trembling hands, Rohan opened the letter. In his father’s shaky handwriting, it read:
“Dear Rohan,
Son, I know you are very busy. In America, you probably don’t even have time to breathe. I knew that news of my death would cause you worry. You would wonder about leaves, tickets, and meetings.
Son, your time and career are important. I raised you to conquer the world. Don’t let an old man’s corpse cause you a loss. I have already arranged my own death. The agency is paid; they will handle it. If you can come, that’s good; if not, I have no complaints.
I have just one request—when I used to walk you to school as a child, I never let go of your hand. Today, when you light my pyre, do not let your hand tremble. Go back quickly; your wife will be waiting.
Yours, Papa.”
As he finished reading, the checkbook slipped from Rohan’s hand into the mud. In that crematorium, amidst the sound of crackling wood, Rohan’s ego and pride were reduced to ashes.
He fell to his knees, crying out, “Papa!! Please forgive me!”
He grabbed Sumit’s feet. “Sumit, I don’t want to go back to America! I want to stay with my father! I earned millions, but I am a beggar. My father worried about my meetings even while he was dying… and I was calculating the minutes of his funeral?”
Rohan didn’t catch his flight. He sat by the burning pyre all night.
He finally understood: “Prepaid” is for SIM cards, not a father’s love. A parent’s love is “Unlimited,” and no currency in the world can pay its debt.
The Lesson: No matter how big you become, never turn your back on the parents who shaped your childhood. An agency can perform a funeral, but it cannot provide the tears. Those belong only to the blood that created you.