My father is breathing his last.
He is the only support I’ve ever had in life. I lost my mother in infancy, and did not have any siblings. A relationship was initiated, but ended badly due to my insecurities. The girl found me too possessive and clinging.
I hold his hand, as his breathing gets laboured. He takes 2-3 minutes to inhale and exhale once.
“Let me call the doctor, Pop…”
He signals a No with his hand, and speaks in a feeble, broken voice.
“Your parents died in the terrorist blasts of 1994. I brought you up single-handedly after that.”
“Who were my parents?” I’m kind of numb, but my grip on his hand strengthens, proportionate to the urgency in my voice.
“I don’t know. I am the terrorist who planted the bomb. You clung to my trousers, wailing loudly, so I got you home, and never looked back at that life again.”