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When I entered the room, I saw my father sitting on the sofa next to the fireplace. The fire has gone out, and he was sitting in the darkness. When I came closer, I noticed something else. My father was crying.

‘What is wrong, dad?’

He didn’t answer and kept sobbing, and then I remembered.

‘I am sorry, dad, don’t cry. I am bringing a book and we will read it together, alright?’

I went to the book shelf, and took a book. Turning back to my father, I saw his tears dropping on his shirt, white and neat, leaving grey marks.

The White Room


I was connecting the dots, comfortably seated, with the paper on my lap, when my mother came into my room.

‘Dinner is ready, dear.’

And then she left, and I remembered that she is dead. Mama, you are dead for thirty years.

I was connecting the dots on the paper, drawing lines. They ran smoothly from one dot to another, and I was old, I was very old. I have connected so many dots.