We are in Ruchi's childhood home in Mumbai. It is low-ceilinged, cheerless and badly in need of repair. The walls carry the sour stench of rainwater and the windows look like they haven't been cracked open in months. It's not the kind of place one would invite a stranger to but none of that seems to register with Ruchi. In the hour that we spend together, her eyes flit to a door that's slightly ajar. Every few minutes, we hear low grunting sounds from within. They punctuate the topic that has brought us together that afternoon: death. And the ominous, soul-crushing expectation of it.
Ruchi's father is fading fast. His oncologist no longer uses the vocabulary of months. I send a silent prayer heavenward when I hear that: "Please, god, not while I'm here." Shamefully self-absorbed? Without a doubt. I do not want to witness the moment a person becomes an orphan.
