That day, I cried. Not because of the government or the chaos on the news, but because of something much closer to home. About a neighbor, a man in his sixties we’ll call Darmo.
Darmo worked as a traditional masseur. Sometimes he took on other odd jobs—whatever honest work he could find. He lived in one of my father’s rental houses with his wife and children. Their life seemed simple, but happy. No quarrels, no whispers of violence.
Darmo was tall, solid, and firm, with a face people would call handsome. His voice was pleasant too—after finishing a massage, my father often asked him to stay and sing karaoke together. He always paid the rent early, rarely even waiting for the due date.
But then, one day, everything changed.
He came to massage with a gloomy face, speaking little. When my father invited him to sing afterward, he refused. From that day on, he was never the same: quiet, heavy-hearted.
Sensing something was wrong, my father invited him for coffee at the gazebo in front of our house. I, who usually locked the gate at night, was told to sleep early. It seemed it would be a long night for the two of them.
The next morning, Darmo came and said he wanted to move out. My father only nodded, not asking further.
Even after leaving, he was still called sometimes to massage my father. But his body grew thinner, his face more sorrowful. Eventually, we learned the truth: his wife had filed for divorce. When he left our rental house, she no longer wanted to live with him. He had no home—sleeping wherever he could—until the villagers allowed him to stay in the madrasa near the mosque.
His health declined. Once, he was rushed to the hospital with unbearable back pain—it turned out his kidneys were failing. My mother said softly to my father,
“Why don’t you contact his wife? Poor Darmo, suffering alone.”
But Darmo refused, saying,
“It’s useless, sir. She no longer cares about me.”
Mother sighed,
“If not his wife, surely his children still care. No child could bear to see their father like this.”
But hope quickly faded. My father eventually found his family’s address, yet not once did they visit—not even after hearing about his illness. It was as if the bond of family had been cut clean.
Rumors spread: his wife had changed after attending a school reunion. She had once been the school’s beauty, bright and admired by many. Her old friends sneered at her marriage. “You were once so beautiful and smart, yet your husband is just a masseur?” Those words poisoned her heart. She grew ashamed, resentful, and distant.
Meanwhile, Darmo survived on odd jobs. Sometimes my father offered him food, but he often declined. “I’d be ashamed if I ate here too often.”
Until, at last, the news came. On August 2nd, at 3:00 a.m., Darmo passed away.
We were shocked. Just four days earlier, he had helped my father fix the water tank. I still remembered him carrying a ladder into the house, seeing me holding my second child. With a smile, he said:
“My second grandchild will be born in two weeks.”
But he never got to meet that grandchild. God had already called him home.
Darmo’s story leaves a painful lesson: that love can shatter from the whispers of the world, that even strong men can break in silence, and that not every reunion brings joy.
And I cried—not only for his passing, but for how lonely a man’s journey can end.
Photo by Dalelan Anderson on Unsplash
