Seeing somebody’s head fall, dangle, drop, hang, reminds me of my Papa. At the time of his death, his hand too dropped, hung, fell, dangled. While walking along Adra town, crossing a familiar spot by bus—I remember I remember things about Papa. As he walked along trying hard to control his asthma, after having disposed of Vellore matters, and as he stood by the side of people’s suspicion and abhorrence, Papa told me: let’s go away . . . where should we go Papa? How far is the world of the moon from our rented house, how many nautical miles, how many furlongs stand between the starting point and the end of our journey—who could say for certain! Just before his death Papa whimpered—Help! Help! Then, was it that oxygen fell short even where you were going, Papa? And did you feel severe pain as you drew your breath, very severe? I have never seen any death before my very eyes—I just saw you die, saw you dying out! You died, and as you fell dead, your hand fell dangling, your neck drooped, totally, you didn’t talk, didn’t stand up, just died out . . . and quite sometime after you had died, seeing an  old nut-seller, one day, on the train, I remembered you, just you! He too had his hand dangling, he too had asthma, had children to look after. Hearing the sounds of his asthma, and the soft hawking of “nuts, nuts”, I remembered you, I really missed you very much, Papa.