People

It was hard for me to wake him up and ask for food. Dad coughed for nearly 15 minutes in the bathroom and when he came back, all he could do was lie down again and sleep, hoping to never wake up again. The cancer had won. He was wearing all white that day, a traditional kurta and pajama and that color was significant enough for anyone to understand that he had given up on life and his family. Skinny and bald with a fractured voice is what he gave me as memory of what a father looks and sounds like. But what about my hunger? Being a 7 year old, his appearance and his disease were least of my concern that particular afternoon. I needed the food and he needed his sleep. You don’t pat on a dying man’s back and ask for food when he’s busy brawling death.  The past has a bad habit of seducing you into the loop of memories, where its only objective is to make you feel vulnerable. That afternoon is where my father still breathes and I for one, won’t kill it.  “Papa . . .” “ . . .