. . . (3)

–Dad?

-

–Dad? Dad. It’s me.

-

I hear him but I don’t hear him. I cannot explain. In my head I’m talking to him. But I know I’m not. Really. I can see it on his face. I’m just his catatonic father. I’m just looking at him confused. But I’m not. I cannot explain. I wish I could take away his hurt. His pain. Guilt, probably. He’s just a boy. Only a boy, really. He’s nineteen years of age. Motherless. Fatherless.

-

There are black and white photographs in a shoe box I keep under the bed. When I remember, I take them out. Here’s your mother and I in 1962. Before Natasha came around. We are at a party. We are both smoking. I am wearing a suit. She is still overweight. Always has been. This is when we used to travel. When she could, easily. We owned an apartment building in Brahmapur, on the coast of the Indian Ocean. This photo was taken at a party in London. Your mother was English. And German. You and your sister were born in Canada. She went to McGill. You wanted to study there also, but by then we had moved. You wanted to. But by then we had gone to that place where the American children put you upside down into a rubbish can. I have always felt remorse for bringing you to America.

-

–Dad. Let’s get you up.

-

I started walking after Natasha left to chase that Dutch man from South Africa. And after they moved to Zimbabwe and he had an illegitimate child with that African woman, your mother decided she could not travel anymore. You were always put ahead of everything. You were an Indian boy, and Indian boys are always put ahead of everything. It is why your sister ran away to the bottom of the world. In our household she did not matter as much as you. Your mother knew that’s why Natasha left. So did I. It was our culture. I have many regrets. It is what happens to a man who lives too long. He looks back and sees the many regrets. Are you listening? How can you? I am not saying anything to you. I know I’m not. I can see it on your face. I wish I could take away your pain. There are many things I now wish. One of them is to die soon.

-

–Dad?
–Don’t hold up supper for me.
I say this and I turn on my side, facing the wall.

. . . (2) or Discipline

I walk. I walk everywhere. I walk toward it. Most people walk away from it. Run, even. I don’t mind. I walk toward it. I hope to meet it halfway. Remove the surprise. It. It could be anything or anyone. It could be the milkman, although there are no more milkmen. I had a picture from Life magazine once, of a milkman delivering his bottles among the ruins of London, during the war. He had slicked back hair and it was parted. The picture was fantastic. He had a look of concentration on his face, as he stepped around piles of rocks and rubble. To deliver the daily milk. To whomever was still living among the ruins. In London. Nineteen forty-something.

It.

It could be the little girl with the red balloon. For Hemingway it was Compton in a tweed jacket, piloting that little plane above the Kilimanjaro. For Kolatkar it was Jejuri. I don’t mind. I walk. Not because of the doctor. I don’t care too much for what the doctor says. I don’t pay much attention to my statistics. Heart rate. Cholesterol levels, good and bad. Blood pressure. Blood sugar. My wife was alive before the doctor, and after she was dead. So I don’t place too much in what he says. He opened her up on the table for a quadruple bypass. And that was her end.

I walk. My son bought me a pedometer. It records paces. Steps. It records them by detecting the motion of the hips. I walk. Sometimes I get on the Metro, so I can then walk. It seems strange, taking public transportation so you can walk. Sometimes I go to his town to make sure he’s all right. He lives a 45-minute train ride away. I walk the streets around his apartment. I don’t know why. It makes me feel good. Like I am his caretaker. I can protect him. I have a Walkman. I love Vangelis. Vangelis and Jon Anderson. I love Giorgio Moroder as well. I have to tell you. Walking toward death is liberating. I cannot tell you. But I have to tell you. Walking toward death is liberating.

Here comes my son now.

. . .

–Yes, I’m waiting.
–Are you?
–Yes, yes.
–Because you have that music playing in your ears, is all. And you sometimes don’t pay attention with the music…
–I know. Don’t worry. I’m waiting at lights before I cross. Don’t worry.
The old man jams his earphone deeper into the canal. He scratches at the other lobe.
–Dad, what were you doing in College Park?
–When?
–When Rommie saw you.
–When was that?
–I don’t know. Last week maybe.
–I don’t know. What was I doing?
–Walking. That’s what he says.
–That’s what I was doing?
–Yes.
–Well, then that’s what I was doing.
–Yes, but why? What’s there for you?
The old man hits the remote. Jerry Springer. Then an infomercial for some ab machine. Then Jerry Springer again.
–Dad?
–There’s not enough spice in the tandoori at the Rasika.
–What?
–Ninety-nine per cent of Indians do not have a tandoor. Did you know that?
–Dad?
–I would love some tandoori naans. Can you run out and get some? Son.

–

The way I get in is, I jump the fence out back. The chain link. Out back by the stinking garbage and dumpsters. It’s tall, 15 feet, but I climb it anyway. They keep the back door to the place open, so if you can scale the fence, then you can come in. That’s how I get into the bar. I don’t have identification. Well, I do, but I’m not of age yet. Mo doesn’t care. He owns the place, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to know how I get in, just as long as I don’t go in through the front door. My money’s as good as any other drunk’s. It’s how I get in. Scale the chain link fence out back. And in any case, they’re all students. The guys who drink here. They’re all students anyway. They have fake identification. The ones who’re underage. Tomorrow I have to go visit my father. Check up on him. Rommie said he saw him around here sometime last week, walking. He had on headphones. Crossed the street up and back and up and back.
–For twenty minutes.
For twenty minutes.
–Straight.
This place is an hour by metro from where he lives. I got to go and see if he’s all right. He shouldn’t get on the metro. He shouldn’t get on anything. Once, he was locked inside a train car overnight, in the metro rail yard. He fell asleep in the cubby out back, by where they steer the thing, and the mechanic didn’t see him–he was behind a blacked-out Plexiglas window–so the engineers backed up the train into the yard and locked him in for the night.
–You’ll never guess who I saw on the Red Line today. Go ahead. You’ll never guess. Go ahead.
–I don’t know, dad.
–Doctor Ruth! Eh? Eh?
Once, he followed who he thought was Ted Koppel from the Capitol all the way downtown and up Connecticut Avenue, to DuPont Circle.
–He ran over my foot, that Koppel.
–What?
–With his car. With his fancy car.
–I thought you said he was walking…
–Fancy car. Acura, I think. It looked like a Ferrari. A Ferrari maybe. Ran over my foot, that Koppel.

–

–You have to go see him.
–I know.
–I don’t know what he was doing walking all the way down here; he shouldn’t be wandering away from the property.
–I know, I know.
–Will you find out?
–He won’t tell me.
–Why?
–He won’t remember.