Snatches of Memories


My dad loved his company back then. More than he loved his family. Perhaps, in a way, it was his family. I couldn’t begin to presume how he felt or what he thought. He was a complicated person and I would tell you that even I didn’t know him. To this day, I do not know him. I have snatches of memories involving him. All blurred by the passing of time. Or not. Selective memories? Why remember bad times? All I have are the good ones and I’d like to keep it that way. He mentored and molded me to the person that I currently am.

Snatches: he taught me literature and drawing. I can charcoal paint but I’m really bad at applying colors to it. He made me understand Hitler and Stalin. You won’t believe his book collection. He can draw with his right and write with his left, I walked in on him when he was drafting a blue print in his study. He’d punish me by making me read sonnets out loud. He was that guy and more. And I loved him for that. Perhaps hated him for it too.


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