by Anupam Patra
Your leaving was nothing less
than the yearly village carnival;
crackers of pride were burst with deafening sound
the Ferris wheels of praise turned round and round;
even our enemies,
your mother and I were ready to forgive
your first letter, a month later,
told us how different it was out there;
the ones that followed
taught us how in your new world,
ambition was never scarce
as the swell of Brahmani thinned
your time for ties lessened…
from the month next,
no one from Kalpataru’s PCO came
nor did the postman call out our name
we were not sure who to blame −
perhaps you had stepped onto a path,
whose swift and stealing curves
we were incapable of keeping track
‘Is it we, who sent him away, dear?’
your mother incessantly probed
in trying to distract her
I grew tired
your reasons must have been binding
for keeping your own out of your wedding;
maybe this is what you were taught about choices
in the historic halls of hallowed universities
we’ve heard of your high-rise home
within whose warmth
we once dreamt of being reborn
in the lap of our grandson’s love
providence taunts the labours of our care
it has made you a father;
yet to our ordeal
it has kept you ignorant
Situ,
in your mother’s dreams,
you’re always standing outside our gate,
on the carpet of fallen Siulis
you loved to collect as a child,
asking for her permission to leave
perhaps she has given it…
why else has she stopped eating?
I am afraid, by her withdrawal, she is trying to state
what my fingers shiver to express
I have nothing more to write…
just don’t skip your goodbye this time,
in the logic of your terrible wisdom;
a mother may no more be worthy of your home
but she deserves to go
with her world by her side
for one last time
So, lie
to yourself and to whosoever else you must
and come around your childhood abode,
step up your hard-heartedness a notch,
look into your creator’s eyes
preferably with tears of your own
and whisper in her ears, a lullaby
on how you’re going to miss her so much
