It is raining outside but the sun is still high up in the sky, golden and round. I can hear the children downstairs singing-
“It is raining, the sun is shinning. There is a boil on the tortoise anus”.
I am in father’s study. A room filled with books, quiet and grave with knowledge. There are lots of paintings on the wall, a wooden desk at a corner, a fluorescent bulb lighting the room a little. This is not where I read, this is not where I write, this is where I cry.
But this is where father writes, this is where father had written for twenty year, this is where he had been writing since mother left. This is also where he talks to himself a lot. I sometimes listen at the door, my seven year old feet raised a little. His words are always incomprehensible. And whenever I looked through the keyhole, I see him smiling into space. Father has lots of literary works to his credit, lots of awards that came with shiny prizes. Mother had once called him “a rich old writer who talked to himself a lot” in a feat of mild irritation. But I had never understood why mother left. So I was left with father, his books and his brown ceramic mug I served him coffee with every morning.