Fifty eight

I sat with my mouth opened when I learned that his mother was a writer.
‘Are you serious?’ I finally asked him.
‘Yeah, she would write articles for newspaperas, both Kannada and English’ That’s amazing, I told him, to have a writer mother. He nods his head with another ‘yeah’ and rolls his eyes away from me.
‘I was eight years old. My mother would sit with me in the sofa and watch cartoon network. She’d suddenly stop watching, and walk into her room to write. She worked as an English translator in a Government company.’
That’s amazing, I tell him again without taking my eyes off him. My face, amused with all smiles. He looks away. He never looks into one’s eyes while having a conversation.
‘I’d like to meet her’ I tell him excitedly.
‘She’s no longer with us. It’s been eight years since she passed away’ he said in a tone so low before looking down at the tip of his canvas shoe that was drawing curves on the floor.
The words stumbled when I told him I was sorry.
‘That’s alright. Most of the times I thought she was at her desk, writing articles for the newspapers.’

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