He had done his bit. One last time, he did it again. As he filled the sack with the plump grains of rice, he looked at it like a mother’s gaze on her child. He had spent his life taking care of these little grains. But in return, all he got was insurmountable pain. He ate what he harvested. And at times, didn’t eat at all. It was an irony. One that he had never fathomed. His son’s picture on the wall stared back at him. He was in a land far away—in a city that lured him in with its wealth and power and made him its own. He seldom came back to meet his father—leaving him alone and longing for a shoulder to rest upon once in a while.

In the other part of the country, the son remembered his old man every time his eyes rested on a sack of rice. Today, as he sat in his office, taking a bite of his favourite burrito bowl… It was just like he wanted it to be. Slathered with beans, with a mix of his favourite salsa, a dash of spice and a whole lot of mouth watering sensorial delights.

But: it didn’t comfort him. It somehow didn’t feel good… He used to take pride in thinking that he was probably eating his father’s produce, but today, something felt wrong. Suddenly the magical city with its charms and coins couldn’t fill the void that he felt. Far far away, his father felt a jolt of pain strike his chest. Just then the phone rang. He was going back to his roots.

But, was it too late?