The news was in the air
Riding on the talkative mouths of the housemaids,
Sure it did change in transit, like words change in Chinese whispers.
You left so suddenly, so far away
That it doesn’t seem fair to gauge the distance,
Your death is like the myths of our grandmothers
Heard only, imagined and then told again
I can’t touch you, or feel for sure
That your chest doesn’t rise and fall anymore.
The flower sellers only trade in the morning hours,
The evening bears testimony through the strewn flowers
Why were they left over, and others bought,
Adorning someone’s house, or hugging photographs of the dead
How did they divide between two marigolds,
Or was it just negligence, God if there is one
Doesn’t select whom to call and whom to let live
It’s arbitrary; I tell you the strewn flower was beautiful in the morning.
It is terrible walking on these streets alone,
No ear to listen to my little epiphanies,
Just a constant inward monologue with the censor of our being.
All these people walking slow and fast
Are living books, with stories and heartbreaks churning in their hearts.
Did they also loose someone like you, and walk with a terrible emptiness
How do you see this empty space which being vacant
Makes all the more its presence felt?
I don’t feel sad be rest assured, you are a story unfinished
You are a story nonetheless and I rise every day to read you again
Conversations often remind me what you would say,
In a certain situation, your favourite anecdote.
I know you every day by having known you so well
Reminding myself of how you fixed your hair,
Or tugged your t-shirt a little more right before your pocket,
I know you every day by having known you so well,
When you nod your head but think of a puzzle,
And when you truly listen.
The little tuft of beard you liked on your chin
The shoulders brushing in a busy street.
24/03/2023
(Image: From the movie “Raazi”)
Catharsis 