Member-only story
Baba
A short story
“Baba?”
“How was your interview? And did they ask you about the pile foundation?” he’d asked.
Id gasped into the phone, “Seriously, Baba. How do you always know?”
He’d chuckled his idiom, “My dear daughter, I still have some tricks left.”
I wake up. Reminiscence buzzes in my head, like little arrows piercing my forehead. I walk to my mother’s room. She’s in the bathroom. I pause at the door. A photograph of Baba and I on her bedside table catches my eye. In it, we’re leaning over a railing with our backs towards the camera. The memory of that day floats around me and I smile. We were deep in discussion, unaware of the camera being pointed at us, arguing about rock formations.
I walk away but a strange desolation grabs me by the shoulders as I reach the dining table. I pull a chair and slide into it. My eyes sweep over the refrigerator. We have tens of fridge magnets depicting bridges and buildings that my Baba and I’d collected. Here, in our dining room — the world is brought together. I spot the Golden Gate right beside the Eiffel Tower, sticking a leg over the Jantar Mantar.
Baba would not straighten that; he does love the Eiffel Tower for its cross-bracing. All those nights he’d rant about superstructures, shelf angles, sarking and other work stuff while I sprayed…
