Writing about fathers

From Siddhartha Mukherjee’s endearing piece on his father, adoration from a son – 

Oh, and he loved markets. Malls, particularly American ones, depressed him: to shop without confrontation was to die without a battle. When signs reading “fixed price” began to appear in Delhi’s shopping arcades—mainly to fend off inveterate bargain hounds like him—he saw it as a symbol of the impending end of civilization. But he never met a man with a pushcart whom he didn’t give his heart to.

And heart breaking description at other moments – 

When I went to see him, late that summer, it seemed as if a Biblical punishment had rained down on him: the man who wanted to be constantly on the move was confined to his bed, his shoes confiscated, his cane hidden in a closet so that he would not find it and be tempted to roam. One night, when he was particularly delirious, we tied him to the bed railings with pajama strings to keep him from falling off. I woke up in the half-light of dawn and saw him crying softly into his bound hands.


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