To the man who lost his father at the age of eight. To the grey haired, gentle man with beaten black eyes. To the Man who has fought for his life, five times now. To his many trials and tribulations…wives lost, houses lost, friends lost, business partners lost…and lives found. To the stocks and trades that temper his life. To the imaginably afraid, fatherless Doon school naivety who had few visitors. To his brotheless youth, snatched away at seven. To the long-haired IITian who guzzled, and gambled his way to the winning line. To the derby, and smell of heaving horses. To the man who went to America, and came back with a Michigan U degree, to a dying mother. To his friends, stalwarts to a difficult life. To his travels through India and around the world. The many chances, the newspaper cloaked fish n chips, the subway and city maps he adored. To Geography lessons on Sunday. To the bulbs he always changed, the money he always made, the bills he always paid. To the small cars, with big hearts and cheap radios. To the blaring television in the background, the stack of everyday newspapers. To the many little things that make up one mans long routine. To the eggs he never cooked. The advice he always had. The generosity he never kept. The Marks trousers he swore by. The little gold chain he never left without…except when he was strolled out of Op Theatre Number 6.
To papa. The man I admire. The man I am terrified to lose.