I don't even have a photograph. And the mind is a fickle chronicle. It's all I have. Sights and sounds. Of the road in Coimbatore and the front of his scooter. Of the palm on which I stood when I was tiny. As have counteless others after me. Of ice-creams and juices and cold things that are bad for the throat. Of him dropping me off at the station in Chennai. He called me later. When I was back here. To say that he was tired of all the work. That he would retire. And come visit.
Somebody please please please...keep him well. Keep us well. Save us from the miseries of our own fears. Somebody please please please fucking stop.