Tell Her Everything The father and son were already strapped, anaesthetised, all ready. They wore white robes that stretched to their feet...
Tell Her Everything
The father and son were already strapped, anaesthetised, all ready. They wore white robes that stretched to their feet. They could have been two men waiting for their favourite hairdresser or masseuse. I tried to imagine the words they might have exchanged in the morning. Who gave whom support? Who was the stronger of the two? What words did they say to the family before leaving? Did they have breakfast before setting off? What did the son say to his mother? What did the father say to his wife? And what did the mother say to the son? Did anyone grieve, chant a dirge?
Quite suddenly, I thought of Abbu, who’d started taking driving lessons back home in Saharanpur. I shrugged him off and started for the duo. Bright light lit up every little corner and crevice in the hall, as if it were one of those day-and-night cricket matches that had started lately. It was too bright. I’d have to change the lights near my patients, I decided. The staff here still hadn’t understood we needed beams, not floodlights. It had already been a few months since the arrangement was formalised. Fools. And for god’s sake, why was it...
