by M.Mohankumar
Every time I had to write an examination −
in high school and, later, in college −
my father, a pious man, would not let me
leave the house until I saw a good omen,
a green signal, according to him, a bringer,
of good results. He’d always insist on
what he called the most auspicious omen:
the brahminy kite, a visible representation of
Garuda, the mount of Vishnu. He’d rise
from his easy chair, walk down the granite
steps, and walk about in the courtyard,
looking for the auspicious bird, standing there,
often for a long time, patiently, till it came
circling in the sky, gracefully. He’d call me
out and, with his long, tapering forefinger,
direct my gaze towards the wheeling bird,
walk with me to the grilled gate, then pause,
and see me off with a benign smile −
a gesture never lost on me. (I knew that I,
the only son, should repay in good measure.)
Last time, though, I missed his reassuring
presence; and there was none to look for
the omen. He lay in the hospital, ill with
a disease that baffled the doctors, my mother
always hovering about him. Dark forebodings
possessed my mind. I wrote the examination,
and wrote it well. But I couldn’t tell him.
He lay there, past listening − far too gone.
This is vividly beautiful.