Dad is dying.
He is not doing well. He is frail, worse than the last time I saw him, barely a couple of months ago. His feet are now swollen, making it harder for him to walk and harder to get him to move around. So, he spends his day sitting idly at the dining table, waiting for meals, watching tv and smoking occasionally. He hardly talks to anyone. And when we talked to him, the reply was short, most of the time mono-syllabic.
It is now the monsoon season at home. It had been raining steadily a few days before I got home, according to mom. The sky remained gloomy and threatening, heavy with thick grey dark clouds, just like the uneasiness shrouding my mind.
Dad is dying. I don't know what to do.