90th I want to hear you sincerely offering me to mend my ripped jeans, with a thread and needle in your hands, without any trace of sarcasm. You were never sarcastic. I want you to chuckle when I always put cake cream on your face on your birthday. I want to watch you do mundane things like chopping vegetables or lightly dusting the house. I want to watch you read your old medicine books and prepare potions. My mother always laughed that you were a wizard. I loved that even though dadiji was sour towards mumma, you were always proud of what she'd done. I hope you know that papa was holding your hand and he was kinda mad, but kinda happy too, when in your unconsciousness, you offered to slap him in the hospital. He felt belonged. He, your son, my father, had had a complicated relationship with you and dadiji, but that day, he felt like he belonged to you once again. He told us that you just wanted to get up and go home, and it was hard to stop you. I hope you know that the backsides of his ears were on the verge of melting because of the double masks he'd put on for more than 12 hours, for 10-12 days. I hope you know I see your photos and I only miss you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I only cried two tears at 5 a.m, an hour after the news of your death reached me. I'm sorry I rushed to accept that I won't be able to hear you, touch you, see you, hold you, have you pat my head, have you teach me anything, ever again. I accepted that even before I started to grieve. I'm sorry I couldn't hold your hands. I was prepared for more grief. It's like the disaster management system; I don't train in real disaster environment, but I train myself for when the real one strikes. Please tell me what I should tell my sister when she takes out her comb, points to your garlanded picture, and asks casually, "Where is dadaji?" _________________
