‘The day I officially became a storyteller’: Novelist Iffat Nawaz’s (very) personal essay on writing

My father is younger than me. A few years back, I imagined him knocking on my door, appearing even more youthful than I had seen him last. He had come over to ask my permission to take a younger version of me out for a walk, maybe some ice cream, a rickshaw ride, a leisurely stop at a bookstore. True to the sweet-natured man that he was, he spoke to me with a polite grace, just a little short of calling me “Madam.” I took a minute to contemplate his proposition and then allowed my inner child to walk out the door with him. They left giddily holding hands, his palm cupping hers, securely, adoringly. She kept on looking up at his face, smiling ear to ear, beaming with excitement. “Precious soft things” I had thought as I shut my mind’s door to go back to another reality, where fathers and daughters don’t meet often, don’t play, don’t let the ocean’s breeze let their bodies sway. It was January 30.

On October 8, 2018, I turned 40 years four months and one day old. Exactly the age my father was when he died. I remember stepping into the hours of that day...

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