We warned Papa not to work himself to the bone, but that is exactly what he did. The white of his phalanges broke through his fingertips from all the typing he did for emails, spreadsheets, and memos. Because he willed nothing else from his body, his muscles and organs withered away. By the time I graduated college, all that was left was a skeleton in a tattered office chair, hunched over a laptop. He refused to change. I left. 

Though I relished my freedom in San Francisco, I knew it had an expiration. Inevitably, Papa’s bones would fail, and I would need to fulfill the duties of a good son. When Ma called me with the news, I was at happy hour, tipsy off tequila. 

“The other day, he suddenly collapsed! I had to rebuild him joint by joint,” she fretted. They had to toss a toe that didn’t fit anymore. I slurred some response and later vomited. 

I flew to Los Angeles to assist for a few weeks. I wondered if, faced with his mortality, Papa had finally reconsidered his ways. Yet when I arrived, I found him still buried in his computer. 

“The orthopedist said Papa can regrow some of his body if he just rests and enjoys life,” Ma whispered to me. I appraised the damage. His bones were misshapen and thorny from the erosion, so he wobbled like a table on uneven legs. Hairline fractures made him appear hirsute. I couldn’t even recall who he had been pre-skeletonization.

“If,” I replied. 

Optimistic, Ma tried her usual tactics. 

“I made your favorite, onion pakoras!” she said, offering him the fried lumps on a plate. As soon as Papa took a bite, it fell through his rib cage and rolled onto the floor. 

“I’m not hungry,” he decided. 

“Why don’t we go to the mandir and meet everybody? They will be happy to see you,” she suggested. Though Ma’s skin was mostly intact, the area near her vocal chords, once taut and bright, had shriveled from atrophy.

“I cannot. The quarter end is approaching.” 

As Ma’s lips quivered, I lost my patience. 

“Why don’t you take a damn vacation?” 

“I’m going to retire soon.” 

“When?” 

“Soon.” 

“You know, we’re not cutting the mold off of Dollar Tree produce anymore. The mortgage is paid, and I’m making AI money. Literally, why not now?”

I waited for him to spout one of his bullshit explanations: “Bread and butter for our family,” “Preparing for total economic collapse,” or “Money buys respect.” But his only reply was the sound of a keyboard and the crunch of his bones.

To avoid yelling at him, I busied myself with less aggravating chores, like cleaning the gutters. The orthopedist had advised Papa to bathe weekly in eight gallons of milk for the calcium, so I kept the fridge stocked. The task should have been straightforward, but Papa demanded I buy only four gallons and cut the rest with water. 

One morning, Ma asked him, “Why don’t you sing, like you used to?” 

I stopped wiping the countertops as a memory crashed into me, of a gigantic, warm-blooded man. Who had a penchant for nineties Bollywood numbers and, for some peculiar reason, Bon Jovi. Who picked me up and spun me around while belting into a karaoke machine, my little hand nestled between the mic and his soft palm. 

Papa tilted his chin, lost in his own memory. He cracked open his mouth. My chest swelled with hope. But he shut it firmly, casting his skull towards the screen. 

I erupted. “Look, do you even want to live? Because it really seems like you don’t!” 

For a few moments, he was silent. He sucked in a hollow breath. “My bones are almost gone. It’s too late for me. Why does it matter?” 

Ma wept. Papa would have blinked back tears if he had eyes. In the silence, his forfeit festered. I felt the urge to wrap my arms around his fragile frame, but I couldn’t tell whether I wanted to embrace or to crush him. Unable to choose, I fled. I paced around the cul-de-sac in circles and circles and circles and circles, my anger curdling into heartache.

In the afternoon, Ma retreated to her chrysanthemums. Papa limped into the living room, probably to catch Fox News. As he winced in pain, something within me melted. While he lowered himself onto the sofa, I fetched some sandpaper from the garage. Wordlessly, I knelt down and began smoothing out his body. He sat quietly while I fixated on going up and down, the dust falling like snowflakes. When I finished, he stood up, glancing at me shyly. He took a tentative step and then strode away, his heels clacking against the linoleum, but his gait steady. 

I was drowning in reruns of Parks and Recreation when I heard an ancient sound. I followed it to Papa’s office. Though it was muffled behind the closed door, it was indeed a melody with lyrics. The voice was as sweet as I remembered. I closed my eyes and visualized the layers of his body blooming around him. Ribbons of muscle and tissue swathed his bones. His blood flowed, then coursed. The sepia of his skin unfurled and out sprouted the pencil mustache and sweep of his hair. 

When I peeked through the door, his mouth was closed and he was still cold, white bone. A gorgeous ghazal played from the laptop speakers. To its beat, Papa rapped his knuckles against his femur. I imagined his hand enclosing mine.