It's strange, but I don't tell people my father died. Because to me, he didn't. It seems too lukewarm, too natural and not as painful, somehow. And the truth is, his death was none of those things.
My father was killed by a person who walked into his office, brandished a gun, shot only him (when everyone else including my brother were in same room) and ran off without taking the money. Either it was a trigger-happy, slightly stupid robber who needed no money, or this was a targeted killing. I believe the latter, but we have no proof. Largely because the police's ideas of investigation were terrorizing my mother, my brother and our servants with fairly pointless cross-questioning. Since they did more harm then help, my family dropped the case. And all pretensions of access to justice.
And now, 4 years later, daddy's daughter is sitting on her bed, on a cloudy-grey day that cries with her, looking around her and wondering how she allowed herself to get so lonely. Wondering why she spent the past few years deliberately pushing people away. Why every decision she has taken has pushed her towards this large, beautiful, but empty apartment in Islamabad, miles away from Karachi - and from her father's grave. She wonders why she turned down all of the socially acceptable, perfectly good men who wanted to marry her, despite all the craziness, in favor of a relationship with a younger man who does not understand her - and probably never will. She wonders why she moved so far away from everything she was, so much of what she believed in, so many people she loved.
Most of all, she wonders where all of this has led her. Because despite all the bravado, all the smart, independent decisions and all outward assurances to the contrary, when she looks within and sees where she is, she knows she is not happy.
And she knows this is not how he wanted her to be.