Free An Obedient Father by Akhil Sharma

suggesting he was a failure.
    Pitaji closed his eyes. "I feel tired."
    "All you've been doing is lying in bed. Go to sleep."
    "I don't want to," he answered loudly.
    Remembering that in a few minutes I would leave, I said, "You'll get better."

    "Sometimes I dream that the heaviness I feel is dirt. What an awful thing to be buried, like a Muslim or a Christian." He spoke slowly. "Once I dreamed of Baby's ghost."
    "Oh." I was interested, because Baby's importance was confusing.
    "He was eight or nine. He didn't recognize me. Baby didn't look at all like me. I was surprised, because I had always expected him to look like me."
    There was something polished about the story, which indicated deceit. My hatred increased. "God will forgive you," I said, wanting him to begin his excuses and disgust me further.
    "Your mother has not."
    Had she forgiven Pitaji for what he had done to me but not forgiven him for making her unhappy? "Shhh." Now there was so much unhappiness that even anger was overwhelmed.
    "At your birthday, when she sang, I said, 'If you sing like that for me every day, I will love you forever.' "
    I was on my way home. "She worries about you."
    "That's not the same. When I tell Kusum this, she tells me I'm sentimental. Radha loved me once. But she cannot forgive. What happened so long ago she cannot forgive." He was blinking rapidly, preparing to cry. "But that is a lie. She does not love me because I—" he began crying without making a sound—"I did not love her for so long. Radha could have loved me a little. She should have loved me twenty for my eleven."
    Ma came to the doorway. "What are you crying about now? Nobody loves you? Aw, sad baby." Holding the sides of the doorway, she leaned forward. She appeared eager.
    "You think it's so easy being sick?" he said.
    "Easier than working."
    "I wish you were sick."
    I watched them. For a moment I didn't have the strength to stand. Then I remembered, I can go to my home.

    My sleep when I returned to my flat was like falling. I lay down, closed my eyes, plummeted. I woke as suddenly, without any half-memories of dreams, into a silence which meant the electricity was gone, the ceiling fan still, the fridge slowly warming.
    It was cool. But I was unsurprised by the monsoon's approach, for I was in love. The window curtains stirred, revealing TV antennas. Sparrows wheeled in front of distant gray clouds. The sheet lay bunched at my feet. I felt gigantic, infinite. But I was also small, compact, distilled. I had everything in me to make Rajinder silly with tenderness. I imagined him softening completely at seeing me. I am in love, I thought. A raspy voice echoed the words in my head, causing me to lose my confidence for a moment. I will love him slowly, carefully, cunningly. I suddenly felt peaceful again, as if I were a lake and the world could only form ripples on my surface while the calm beneath continued in solitude.
    I stood. I was surprised that my love was not disturbed by my physical movements. I walked out onto the roof The wind ruffled treetops. Small gray clouds slid across the pale sky. On the street, eight or nine young boys were playing cricket.
    Tell me your stories, I will ask him. Pour them into me, so that I know everything you have ever loved or been scared of or laughed at. But thinking this, I became uneasy that when I actually saw him, my love might fade. My tongue became thick. What shall I say? I woke this afternoon in love with you. I love you, too, he will answer. No, no, you see, I really love you. I love you so much that I think anything is possible, that I will live forever. Oh, he will say. My love will abandon me in a rush. I must say nothing at first, I decided. Slowly I will win his love. I will spoil him till he falls in love with me. As long as Rajinder loves me, I will be able to love him. I will love him like a camera lens that closes at too much light and opens at too little, so his blemishes will never mar my love.
    I watched the