In March

The year after you left

I prepared a banquet in your memory

At our old house, of my childhood days

Where we lived and where you died.

But the feast turned cold

The white grains of rice, the yellow dal

And the aroma of curry leaves lingered faintly in air

The fish you loved lay untouched on your plate

And I could not eat because you weren’t there

Oh, How can I wait for some one who is gone

To come and sit beside me ??

Your empty chair at the dinner table

Beckoned your arrival.

The flowers you tendered

the pretty bougainvilleas and pastel orchids

Have withered and dried.

They must have known of your departure

Of the time you carried in your earthly stay.

And now moss and weeds grow, those uninvited guests

Perhaps like Death though, who came on that fateful day.

The first year of your passing I was angry

At the world which could move on so casually

At the seasons that continued to change

At monsoon when it rained and waves of grief washed upon me.

But years have passed now and years will pass

Spring is around us, in March

The cherry blossom beside our house has blossomed

But your room is cold like perpetual winter,

The damp walls, dull and dusty bed sheets

But Ma, I change them whenever I go and visit our house

I open the windows to let sunshine in

And in evenings, I watch the dust dance in light

Enthralled, I revert to my six year old self

When you were still there, and Muma and Bajey too.

When the house was not the hollow skeleton it is now.

And when I thought I was easy to love.

Still, I try to keep you and your memory alive.

And some days, it’s a haze

And I think perhaps

You’ve only gone to the market

And you’ll come home soon.

My brother said

‘ When a person dies, the first trait we forget is their voice.’

But I have held on to every snippet of your sound

And I recall your voice, your tone, almost fervently, in case I ever forget.

And I tell myself as I wait

That you’ll come home soon

And you’re not gone, you’re only late.