Two Fathers
A confession, not a story — because I have nothing left to lose.
I have two fathers. One no longer speaks to me. The other I carry in my pocket.
The second one is a pink tablet, small as a chickpea, with two letters stamped into its face. On the street it goes by many names — guti, maal — but the most common one will make your skin crawl. Baba. Father. Yes: across this country, hundreds of thousands of boys call that pink thing Baba. It took me twenty-four years to understand why. Like a father, it holds you when you fall. It reassures you. And one day you look up and realize you are nothing without it.