A Vignette on Fathers

On the 29th when they took him to hospital, you said he didn't need a bed. He could fit on a
pillow.

On 3rd when you looked at your 389th happy New Year greeting, you autotyped “same to you”.
No one on whatsapp knew.

At 89 days when Omar was diagnosed with Kawasaki; everyone in your office called you the
sulking MD.

“He's fought with his wife on New Year's Eve”;
because that's what worried fathers do.

On the 5th attempt you gave up. Take him with her, you said you said, you are fed up.

On the 8th kill you greened. You folded your rathole issue camo socks, threw up acrid adrenaline
- one last time you autocleaned your barrel.

No one in Iraqi Kurdistan knew.

At week 17 of IVF therapy when you and your new bride could do no more; doctor Mehdi said
neither could he.
“He keeps saying he wants another, just a younger replica of him”;
because that's what cold hearted fathers do.

At 30 ml left, you put it back in your leather bag. I will attempt to switch to codeine, since
vitamin sol is almost over, you reasoned.

At 678 kilometres to leheriya sarai, you realised your taxi tour was, also, almost over. You had
been in the waterless desert, sold out inventory, scared off the attempts at dumping from northern
territory, survived on vitsol and codeine, made your July target.

At 5 minutes left, you missed the last passenger to Jaipore. The station master grinned and
pointed at the first class ticket he had pawed for you.
“Pay me my price and you can reach your son's birthday tomorrow.”;
You gave him the remnants of the 350 rupees you had saved on hotel stay for a new briefcase.

Because that's what promises from fathers do.