It’s been 17 years since.

By the time I reached home he was dead. Traces of white still there on the right side of his face – under the jaw and on his neck. He had finished shaving half his face, the other half still with the stubble of the day before shining in dried shaving cream. He was lying on the warm cement floor with nothing under his head; must have been put there by the neighbours who were standing around him. I didn’t like it and wanted to put him on the settee where he would snooze in the afternoons. That July was much warmer, no rains that year. Sitting in a corner, mother was delirious and wailing. Grief is a river, it must run, I didn’t console her. The neighbourhood doctor, still by his side, got up and held my hand offering condolences. That morning of July 29th I had driven like a maniac only with the hope I would be able to say, ‘Bye Dad’. But no, like always he was in a hurry.

Photo: Daddy (in black jacket) posing for a photo from the jharokha of his house in Lahore. Don’t miss the beautiful cinquefoil arch at the entrance to the house (bottom left) and the lotus on it. The lakhori brick structure has stayed in tact for over 85 years since its construction.