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Volte-face

Priyaa Trippayar Sahasrnaman                          

Underneath his wrinkled skin ran blood pumped from a heart that had been young all along. He had ten days yearning for his daughter to forgive him for all the harm his age had done. Precious glassware had slipped off his shaky hands. His uncontrollable bowels had wiped out all those years of love. As she sat before him, his eyes promised to wait for her to call him back home, for senility home was no place for him.

She held his hands and said, “Pa, you can come home, but you need to adjust with Hari.” The very word ‘Hari’ awoke in him those strange echoes his old brain refused to forget. “Your father is a liability.”

As he turned back and looked at the pristine building which stood proud like a new bottle with old wine, he embraced the truth. “This is where I belong,” he said.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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