Mother had never called me so early.
“Son, I need to talk to you. Are you busy?”
“Tell me, Ma,” I replied.

“Your father’s stomach pain isn't getting any better. He hardly sleeps at night. I took him to Dr. Kumar, the doctor nearby. He has advised us to take him to the big hospital in Coimbatore. We need to go tomorrow. Can you come with us?”

It was the end of the month. I hadn't met my work targets yet. My manager would certainly lose his temper if I asked for leave now.

A moment of irritation took over me.
“Tell him to drink another couple of bottles, Ma. What else can you expect? I've told him countless times to stop drinking, but does he ever listen? Then why wouldn't his stomach hurt?”

Silence came from the other end.
My mother's silence hurt more than her words.

“Fine, Ma. I'll come. You and Dad take the bus. I'll ride my bike and meet you there.”

“Okay, son. He isn't eating anything either. That's what worries me.”
“Don't worry, Ma. It'll be nothing serious. We'll see.”

I reassured her and disconnected the call.
Two months ago, when I had visited home, Father had seemed perfectly fine. Only at night would he complain that sleep had abandoned him. He would stay awake until dawn, listening to old songs.

Mother was not someone who raised an alarm over every little thing. If she had called me like this, there had to be something wrong.

A strange fear began to settle in my stomach. I closed my eyes and silently prayed to Lord Murugan.

That evening, I explained the situation to my manager.
To my surprise, he simply said, “Take care of things at home and come back, Thiru.”

Then, after a brief pause, he added,
“We should look after our parents while they are still with us. Regretting it after they are gone won't change anything.”

His voice trembled slightly. His eyes had grown moist.
When I reached home, I told my wife, Meera.
“Nothing will happen to him, dear. Be brave,” she said.

She reminded me that Father had experienced a similar problem during his previous visit a few months earlier.

My father was a king in the world of lathe workshops.
A turner by profession, he commanded respect wherever he went. The moment he stepped into a workshop, someone would call out, “The turner has arrived!” and he would be welcomed like royalty.

I can still picture him standing beside the lathe machine, a vernier caliper in one hand, a cigarette between his fingers, and the sharp, watchful eyes of an eagle examining every inch of the workpiece.

He could never remain in one workshop for more than three months.
He would find some excuse to stay away from work for a few weeks. During those days, whatever money he had saved would slowly disappear into bottles of brandy.

Mother would plead with him, argue with him, and eventually grow exhausted.
“Do whatever you want,” she would say in desperation.

Then, as though nothing had happened, he would announce that he had found work at another workshop.

He would comb his hair backwards, apply a little vermilion to his forehead, and leave with a smile.

There was something undeniably majestic about the way he walked to work.

And then the old story would begin all over again.
During my previous visit, his stomach pain had become unbearable. I had taken him to a nearby clinic. After an ultrasound examination, the doctor prescribed some tablets and asked him to return after a week.

But by the second day, Father had announced that he had work to attend to and left.

I never thought about the matter again.
Now, I searched my phone for the medical reports I had saved from that visit. I sent them to a doctor I knew and spoke to him over the phone.

He gave me the number of a doctor at the government hospital in Coimbatore.
“Don't delay. Take him there immediately,” he advised.
Fear tightened its grip on me.
“Is it something serious, Doctor? Please tell me,” I asked.

Perhaps sensing the anxiety in my voice, he paused before replying.
“Don't panic, Thiru. Meet the doctor whose number I've given you. He will explain everything clearly.”

The call ended.
That night, sleep refused to come.

My mind wandered through countless possibilities, each more frightening than the last.

Early the next morning, I called Mother.
“We're on the bus,” she said.

There was only one direct bus from our village, Veerappandi, to Coimbatore. It would take about an hour and a half and drop them right outside the government hospital.

By the time I reached Coimbatore, it was eleven in the morning.
Mother was waiting at the hospital entrance.

“Where is Dad, Ma?”
“I asked him to eat something, but he refused. He had only some juice. He's sitting over there.”

She led me towards the outpatient department.
The smell of medicines and disinfectants filled the air. It was that unmistakable hospital smell, one I had never liked.

Father was sitting on a bench among the other patients. The moment he saw me, he slowly got up.

For a few seconds, I struggled to recognise him.
How could a man lose so much weight in just two months?
He smiled when he saw me.

But it was a lifeless smile. A faint trace of pain flickered across his face and disappeared.

“Why aren't you eating properly, Dad? Look how thin you've become. What would it cost you to reduce your drinking?”

“Son, it's been a month since I touched alcohol. Ask your mother,” he replied in a feeble voice.

Was this the same man whose voice once thundered across an entire workshop?

He leaned closer and spoke quietly.
“They'll keep asking us to take one test after another just to collect money. How many tests have we already done in the village? Enough is enough. Just get the tablets and leave. I can't sleep at night. The pain is unbearable.”

Something broke inside me.
I turned towards Mother.

“Why didn't you tell me he had become this weak? We should have come earlier!”

“What could I do, son? Your father wouldn't let me bring him. He kept saying tablets would be enough. Just tablets, nothing else.”

A wave of guilt swept over me.
I should never have listened to Father.
I should have insisted that he stay with us, even if it meant keeping him against his wishes.

I had sent money for rent and daily expenses. Whenever he visited, I gave him whatever he needed. But suddenly, none of that seemed enough.

He would arrive without warning, stay for a week or so, and then leave.
Sometimes he would ask for a little money.
“Here, Dad. Take a thousand.”
“Why so much? Five hundred is enough. That's just for my cigarettes.”
If I asked him to stay,

“Why should I sit around watching television all day, son? I'll get bored. There are two of our old friends back home. We'll sit and talk about something or other.”

And he would leave.

I couldn't bear to see the proud image of my father crumbling before my eyes.

“Come on, Dad,” I said, asking him to accompany me.
“You go ahead. I'll come,” he replied.

By the time we reached the second floor, he was completely exhausted. He sat down beside me, breathing heavily.

We waited with all the medical reports, including the X-rays and ultrasound scans taken in our village.

I decided that we should repeat the necessary tests here. If the doctor advised hospital admission, I would arrange it immediately.

I called the doctor whose number I had received.
He asked us to get a CT scan and wait.
An hour later, a nurse called my name.
I took Father inside.

“Are you Thiru, the one Dr. Saravanan referred?” she asked.
“Yes,” I replied.

A doctor examined the report in my hand. He studied it for a while, then asked us to wait outside while he kept Father inside for further examination.

“Nothing serious, is it, son?” Mother asked.
Something inside me was already uneasy. I couldn't explain it.
“It'll be fine, Ma,” I said.

After nearly an hour, Father came out.
“Son, the doctor wants to see you,” he said.
Then he added casually,

“Go and come back. If he talks about surgery and all that, tell him we'll think about it. Your father hasn't saved you enough money to spend on all this!”

He laughed.
I managed a faint smile, nodded, and walked inside.
The doctor asked me to sit down.
“What have you studied?”
“I have a degree, Doctor.”
“Hmm.”
He looked at me for a moment.

“I've examined the reports thoroughly. You have brought him very late. It's stomach cancer. It has already progressed beyond the stage where treatment can be effective.”

For a few moments, I couldn't understand what he was saying.
The words seemed to hang in the air, refusing to reach me.
I sat motionless.
The doctor must have understood what was happening inside me.
“Doctor, if we perform surgery, is there any chance he could recover?”

“He is elderly. More importantly, he is extremely weak. We could attempt laparoscopic surgery, but I cannot say whether his body would withstand even the pain associated with it.”

“What should we do now, Doctor? Can we try treatment at a private hospital? Is there anything else we can do?”

He looked at me with compassion.

“If you want to explore other options for your own peace of mind, you can. But the first question is whether his body can withstand the treatment.”

I sat silently again.
My eyes began to fill.
The doctor waited for a moment before speaking.

“Perhaps another sixty days, brother. That's all he may have. Keep him happy for whatever time remains. Buy him whatever he wishes. Let him eat what he likes. Spend time with him. And please, be strong.”

He stood up.
“I'm telling you openly because Dr. Saravanan spoke to me about you. Stay brave.”
“Should we take any more tests, Doctor?”
He shook his head.
“No. There's no need.”
I wiped my eyes.
“Please don't tell my father anything about this, Doctor.”
He gave me a faint smile and walked away.
I followed him outside.Father was sitting on the bench, half asleep.

Looking at him, I felt as though my tears were about to burst through the walls I had built around them.

“What did the doctor say, son?” Mother asked.
I could only nod.
“He has prescribed some tablets, Ma.”
“Will the tablets alone cure him, son?”
Before I could stop myself, tears began to roll down my cheeks.
Mother understood.
She didn't ask another question.
“Whatever it is, don't tell him, son,” she whispered, her voice breaking.
I held her hands tightly.

For the first time, I felt that we were both standing on the same fragile ground, holding each other up against a truth neither of us could bear to speak.

About fifteen minutes later, Father woke up.
I went and sat beside him.
“What did the doctor say, son?”

“Nothing serious, Dad. He says you've had an ulcer in your stomach because of all those years of drinking. He's asked you to take tablets for a month.”

“Hmm. Didn't I tell you, Ma? I knew something was wrong with my stomach. Your mother is the one who gets frightened over everything!”

He smiled.
I glanced at Mother, silently pleading with her to play along.
She understood.
I walked ahead with Father.
“Hold my hand, Dad,” I said.
He suddenly pulled his hand away.
“Get lost, boy! Am I some old man who needs his hand held?”
Then, as though nothing had happened, he said,

“Alright, you go and talk to your mother. I'll just have a smoke and come.”
With slow, unsteady steps, he walked away.
I stood watching him.

The man who once commanded an entire workshop with the strength of his hands and the authority of his voice was now walking away from me, one faltering step at a time.

I wanted to run after him.
I wanted to hold his hand again.
I wanted to tell him that he was not old, that he was still my strong father, that I needed him, and that I wasn't ready to let him go.

But I said nothing.
He kept walking.
Slowly.
Very slowly.
And I watched my father disappear into the distance.

.    .    .