Parents are one's unchangeable lot. Sometimes, we get lucky: we find people who we are okay to befriend as we grow older. But, most of the time, in my experience with people from my generation, relationships with fathers have been exceptionally hard to navigate. My father is no exception. Since I lost my mum about a year and a half ago, I have come to realise that his only memory of my mother is all that she did for him. He has no memory of her for herself - for who she was. She has written so many things and he has not read a single one of her writings. She loved books, witty articles in newspapers, flowers, good food, desserts, sweet music, TV serials. She was ever curious about the world and wanted to travel to new places and found joy in reading and learning about the places she wanted to visit. He has no memory whatsoever that memorialises any of these things. Instead, he talks about how she prepped for poojas, and becomes especially dramatic about the one festival where she ...