by Saikat Das
Piku,
Your father did a good job
Dying without a fuss
Yes, he bothered you a lot
But in the end he got you
Your man
Nice movie, dear…
My father doesn’t have constipation
But he goes to urinate eight times
Every night
Ah! You know it: Prostate cancer
At two in the night,
When I have dozed off a bit
He slowly opens the door
Making sure it doesn’t do
The ghostly sound.
But the door, as old as him,
Betrays his trust.
He then lights the night lamp
So I don’t wake up
And pulls himself
To the bathroom door.
There he would stumble as usual
And I shall jerk back
To my nightly vigil.
Piku, my movie has no cuts,
I would rush to him and say
‘Why didn’t you call me?’
But there is such guilt
In his drooping eyes,
A silent cry for forgiving
The blunt old man…
I can only thank him
That he had lit
Such a dim light.
Piku, there are certain things
A movie cannot say
Even today.
I untie the strings of his pajamas
And see his pee falls at the right place.
Then I hold his hands
And take him back to his room.
Piku, we still sleep
Or rather stay awake
In different rooms.
My father doesn’t scare away
Those girls who have
A liking for me…
But I am scared,
Scared of the living world
That pities him, shuns him.
Old dying men need someone
To recline their heads upon
And Piku your dad loved you
The movie was really good;
I know the director up there
Sitting in the clouds, white and grey,
has scripted all our moves.
I try to keep rehearsing it all the time
In the backyard of my mind;
But Piku, it’s hard, really hard,
When your father….
How naturally you cried –
For a long time, I haven’t…
I think I should learn it from you
Or maybe it’s just not there
In His script.
All I fear is the silence
My father shall leave behind –
A thin white sheet spread out
Like a foamless sea, ice-dead
Almost like a movie-shot.
And my nights shall go
Sleepless as ever
Waiting for the creaky sound
Of the door.
Piku, there are still certain things
Your movie can’t buy
But for all else it was nice
Very nice.
