Death is cruel. It keeps no calendar. Anytime, anywhere, a tragedy unfolds and a person is gone. Nothing hits us more than the death’s reflection in the eyes of the moribund: pale visage, weak breaths, and that soft opening of infirm eyes. It shakes. Kills those observing it closely.

What remains are memories. Even memories fade. Fade, like mist. Everything eventually forgotten. So goes the story of humans: they come, live, go, and disappear into nothingness.

This piece reflects one such person who a few days back shuffled off this mortal coil, someone very close to me: my father.

He had devoted all his life to feeding his family. Nothing beyond that seemed to matter to him. From morning until dusk, he could be seen stitching customized clothes of countless classic designs. But then a disease appeared, and he was no longer the person he used to be: an early riser, someone who carried accountability and responsibility within the household.

From putting a boiler in a copper receptacle to bringing milk and vegetables, he went from being constantly active to remaining stuck in bed, writhing in pain and discomfort. A person who had never let anyone see him go to the washroom now needed two........

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