Not quite sure, though.

But that tilt of his head.

The blots of black hair dye

Between patches of grey hair.

He always dyed

His hair in a hurry too.

Before he died.

He looks so similar to him, this old man.

Sitting two rows away in the crowded bus.

“Baba, is that you?” I want to ask.

I stop myself.

He may have survived the heart attack that killed him.

I tell myself.

But he couldn’t have survived the fire.

I tell myself.

I saw the fire burn him to ashes.

I set fire to my father.

Because they said he was dead.

This man

Sitting two rows away

With that familiar face

In this rickety old bus

Cannot be my father.

This man is still alive.

My father is not.

But I wish he was.




Image Source: pixabay.com


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