Under a car.

That’s the last picture of my father – a roadside memory – grey yet lively; surrounded by gentlemen, boys, kids, and infants hanging on shoulders, all waiting for him to spurt as if he were a Diwali cracker aborted by winds. He was run over by a slow moving white car; the man with sunglasses couldn’t feel the bumpy wheels as they slowly rolled over my father who had been lying asleep on the path beside a tree, drunk and tired.