Pati stayed with the man until the ambulance came, shielding him from nosy passers-by and instructing the crowd to keep a distance. And when the ambulance crew showed up and carried the man into the ambulance, Pati followed them up the ambulance as though it was the most natural thing.
“I’m sorry ma’am, may I know your relationship with this man?”
“He’s my father. Now back off and let me in.” She ignored the questioning man and squeezed her way into the ambulance, incurring the disapproving look of the ambulance crew.
Why would she say he’s her father? She hadn’t seen her father for most of her life; in fact, it was highly likely that he was dead by now. Yet she couldn’t shake off the notion that this withered man could be her very own father, and looked at his unconscious face with a tender look befitting of a loving daughter.
Soon, however, she noticed something unusual: even as he was lying on his back, this old man appeared hunched. His knees and elbows were bent slightly, and no matter how the ambulance jerked and his position shifted, they remained bent, like he had never shaken off the posture of a baby. Equally interesting were his clothes; not only were they out of fashion, they were the same kind of traditional costumes they used to wear when she was a child, with tacky floral patterns and buttons along the sleeves and trousers. These were hard to find these days, especially in the excessively modernized city they were in, and hardly worn by anyone anymore.
Pati’s eyes gleamed; she recalled once again the miraculous black that spat this man out, and was convinced that the gods had performed a first miracle on her.