Anirudh Dhanda
I pulled out a book from the shelf and out came a torn strip of the cigarette pack that my father must have used as a book mark. For an instant, I thought as if I had touched his fingers. Often, I remember him on my return from the court. He also used to change into pyjamas and an easy shirt, and then sit in his bed and have a relaxed cup of tea, along with a toast with fresh cream on it, and sometimes also a half-fried egg, as I do.
But at the same time, many things are missing. That hookah is not there nor are the people who used to throng to hear about the latest. Nor can I read Hind Samachar, the Urdu daily we used to get every day without fail.