First thing in that nondescript morning, sometime in the late 1980s, as I entered my office room there was a letter from home waiting for me on the desk. I tore open the Indian inland letter eagerly. There’d been no news from my village home in more than a fortnight which was not normal, because my mother used to write me a letter every week, unfailingly. I got worried as I read through: my father had taken ill and it was to be decided if he needed to be taken to a hospital in the nearest city depending on the treating doctor’s advice. My mother wrote that she’d inform me at the earliest, and since that didn’t happen, I got restless, fearing the worst, knowing that even if the worst had indeed happened it was going to take days to inform me, because I had no direct telephone number either in office or at home or at any friend’s or at any neighbor’s place, they could possibly ring up from a post office. Apart from the hassles of various office extension numbers to reach me and the...
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