Having walked fast I was tired. Moreover, I had to cross two hills on the way up to the spot. I quickly sat down on a rock. My father laughed at my plight. ‘So this little distance has tired you? Rest for a while. But we have to be in time for the bus.’

Father was quiet for some time. He thoughtfully looked at the sun for a moment, and then his eyes fell on the can of home-made wine that I was carrying. Wetting his lips with his tongue he said in a matter-of-fact manner, ‘I am thirsty’.

I gave him the can of wine. He poured himself a mug and handed me the can. He drank all of it at one go. He then arranged the belt that was attached to the trunk carefully on his forehead. So, this was the picture: my father carrying my luggage on his back and me following him with a tiny bag in my hand. We were walking up a narrow hilly road, and neither of us uttered a word as if we were strangers who spoke different languages.

I did not know what was going on in his mind. From time to time it crossed my mind that it was improper for me to let father carry the luggage. I wanted to tell him that I would like to carry the trunk myself, but my guilt and shame did not allow me to do so. This self-consciousness had probably to do with my education, the white-collar job that I had, or quite simply m