My father is dying. I watch him in his hospital bed, his face alternately contorted in pain and peacefully asleep. He has lost 10 kilos in the last year. The needles leave dents in his skin and every day, another machine wheels in and clicks on, taking another part of my father. I look for clarity everywhere. In newspapers, in magazines, in books, in the Gita, the Dhammapada, the Bible, the Koran. But I don't understand any of them.