Kabir sat on the floor of his father’s room, surrounded by piles of clothes. There were three distinct piles. Pile 1: The "Good" clothes (silk kurtas, a stiff Nehru jacket worn only at weddings). Pile 2: The "Daily" clothes (faded check shirts, cotton trousers). Pile 3: The "Comfort" clothes (worn-out sweaters, vests with small holes, the grey shawl he died in). Kabir picked up the grey shawl. It still smelled of Vicks and old wool. He held it to his face, expecting to feel his father. But he felt nothing. Just wool. Just fabric.