“You are going on leave?” the lady seemed to want to continue chatting.
“Yes,” he replied mechanically, then for some reason said truthfully: “Actually, my dad is quite unwell. Going to visit.”
“Oh my God. I’m sorry to hear that. What happened?” she asked, her brows furrowing in concern.
“Paralytic attack. Still in the ICU,” he replied and felt a tightness around his chest.
“Adada!” she commiserated. “I’m sure he will get well soon.”
Hari felt like crying. “Thanks—but I understand he is very critical,” he said.
What was he doing, pouring his heart out to a complete stranger? Jet lag must have kicked in already.
“Hmm, let’s pray he gets out of it soon,” she said.
Silence fell at the table.
Hari leaned back into the pillar behind him and closed his eyes.
What was the appropriate emotion to feel for a father who was so detached, preoccupied, uncommunicative and unapproachable all his life? A parent who was so caught up in his own failure that he couldn’t see the distress of his wife and kids? A man who had acquiesced to the dominance of his mother without protest and had practically left his family to fend for themselves in a toxic environment? What to feel for a man that ruined their lives even before they started?
Yet, here he was, teetering between grief and rage, sitting on an indifferent chair in an indifferent airport, a mere speck in the maelstrom of emotions.
Read the full story here.
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