Till I was 13 or 14, my memories of my father are more transactional. I remember I would go to him for illustrations when doing homework because I couldn't draw. He would pick me up from dance class in Karol Bagh sometimes and bring me back home, but the journey would be mostly in silence. At night, before he went to sleep, he would tell me stories and start drifting off half way while I sat next to him and tried to nudge him back on track (yes, it would be bedtime for him and storytime for me).
