How do I begin?
Where do I begin from, Dad?
Should I tell you, It all started with my coping your hair craft when I was kid, watching you comb your hair in front of the dressing table.
Or should I tell you, it all started when you took me for a drive on your bike and I pretended driving the bike with my hands on the handle bar and how you played along with the pretence.
Or did my love for you start when you brushed the remains of ceralac off my mouth and fed me till my stomach was full and cuddled with me till I went to sleep.
I still remember, Dad, how you laughed when I didn’t know how to tie a lace and came home running to you from school, tucking the loose lace in the side gaps between the shoes and my ankle.
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