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My father's glass eye

By Aarathi Prasad   81

I had never been much aware of my father’s glass eye, just as I had never much noticed his foreign accent. We were swimming some distance from the shore. Fourteen years old, I was way ahead. He called and I turned to find him treading water, right hand covering the empty cave of his eye socket, good eye exploring the glimmering depths. The fugitive eye stared up at us from the seabed. I plunged like a pearl diver, following its gaze all the way down and snatched it up with a handful of sand. That evening, skimming stones into the…

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