Shortly, in a matter of few days, the cacti which looked healthy to me started to look bloated and swollen up. Some even got discoloured, turning yellow. The other few showed signs of rotting. I was devastated. I had watered them well, trowelled them at regular intervals and had even fed them fertilizers. Surely it was some pest that had attacked. I turned to the master farmer for advice. He just smiled. I smiled back perplexed.
I missed him wearing his fat Eskimo jacket (which I hated considering it was totally out of fashion), shielding him from the cold. I felt my eyes getting moist as I thought of him lying alone in the cold grave, and my shear helplessness whimpered me.
His daughter’s face floated in front of his eyes. When he’d seen her last she’d clutched his hand, her little fingers unable to curl around his big palm. She told him that she believed in him.