To Papa, (Who probably won't see this ever. Or maybe after a decade or so. I don't know.) Mamma told me once, I used to get fever when you had to leave for your military operations. I was a toddler then. Unable to think, reach places like your lap and comprehend why you have to leave. When I was two, you lit an Anaar on your palm to entertain me during Diwali. And it exploded in your hand. I did to you what terrorists couldn't do. You were admitted for a month with your swollen fingers stuck together. I have less memories with you now, the subconscious ones. They're limited but strong. I sometimes want to write them. And sometimes I want to lose my infancy with them. They're dear, but embarrassing. Just like this picture. I can't recall when it was taken. But you look handsome that my friend Zeb is crushing on you since morning, and I look like a kid whom I would like to play with. I also can't recall when I got used to of you going away. And staying absent from almost all important events of my growing up years.
