“Daddy, Javed hit me,” I said to my father… I was six, or not quite. Javed was the neighborhood bully, a skinny, wiry boy, probably just a year older than me. .. “Don’t come crying to me. Go back and hit him.”
Read moreA Keepsake From My Father
“When I am gone, you can publish them,” Daddy said to me.
“I want to publish them in your lifetime….There is no benefit to you if they are published afterwards.” I choked on the word ‘afterwards.’ So began the work of organizing Daddy’s memoirs