I feel totally mixed up. Like, I want to keep my beliefs, but at the same time I miss the old life. Not the crime, the drugs, or anything, but the feelings. Music, for instance. One day I heard some Indian music from one of the cells in the section. I thought I recognized it. “Is that Kishore Kumar?” You know, the music my father put on in the car after he came out of prison. Then I asked if I could see the CD and found the song that my dad liked so much, “Aane Wala Pal.” Whenever I hear it, I’m right back in the car with Dad, stretching my neck to look over the dashboard at the road in front
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