by Bakul Banerjee
In the hospital room, made cosy
by a crackling wood fire, our mother
introduced us to my newborn sister.
It was a simple, joyous surprise as I had
clues about neither birth nor death.
I had not known much about love,
but a strange affection bewildered me.
Outside, a dark, frigid night devoured
us – my father, little brother, and me,
as stars shone bright outlining distant
hills. The valley below disappeared
under a sudden fog. We continued
to descend into that frothy bowl
with the aid of a feeble flashlight.
My brother hung from my father’s arms.
‘How far is home? I cannot walk anymore,’
he complained. ‘Not far. See the temple…
on the hilltop? Orion is particularly bright,’
Father spoke to us or to himself, I couldn’t tell.
Across the bridge over the mountain stream
we walked hand-in-hand crunching frost beneath.
Father carried our bags with school books
and extra snacks, necessities to survive long,
itinerant after-school times with acquaintances.
Sojourners on that road were few – tired
vendors walking home from evening markets.
We took the narrow path cutting through
the bamboo grove where ghosts hung around
in the shadows. The lingering fog followed us
like a stray mutt. My father was next to me,
yet so far away. I, only ten, knew that walk
was not for him and he won’t like the dinner
simmering all day in the brass Icmic slow cooker.
For days, Mother drilled Father and me about
how to make it work. She told me that she might
go away for a while. For days, I had been afraid,
but I loved the slow-cooker. I knew the dinner
would taste divine when we reached home.
If only I could take that flashlight from father
and slay the fog away from his lonesome heart!
