“When I was born, father had already lost his mind. He was home but he was never there for mother. Mother tells me how during pregnancy, he did not even buy a piece of cloth for her to wrap around her body. Mother tells me she spent the entire time in one decaying lungi. Her stories of how she had to grind grains to feed herself immediately after birth still echoes in my ear. As I kid, I remember father digging all day. He did not say summer or winter, rain or sun. He dug from morning to evening. He would dig until past midnight and wake up at three to go back to digging. He had completely lost it. I remember one day, in a fit of rage, he beat me and broke my ribs. Mother was afraid of Father and she was scared for me, so she sent me away to live with her parents. In my grandfather’s village, I remember sitting on the cliff atop the valley and watching as the sun sank behind the hills. As the sky changed colors, I cried thinking of mother. I wished she would come back and take her with me. I was a child who wanted to be with her mother. Though life took its course and both my parents are still living, I carried the trauma of my childhood experience with me for a long time. And the memories are still vivid. I think the good thing to come out of it was the lesson I have has learned. I want to be a very good father to my children. I want to be with them and see them grow and help their mother in raising them. I want to treat their mother right. When I am long gone and when someone comes asking, I want them to have good stories to tell about their father – of happiness and love, not of pain and heartbreak.”