Grandfather on His Deathbed

                                                      by  Samartha Vashishtha



Now I have stopped and looked for you when there is no time. When you don't have the strength to hold or press my hand. Looked for your poems written or unwritten because the father of one of us was ill; or because there were too many of them wanting food and medicine and gloves all at once. Looked for cousins I have never met tinkering with their mobiles. Everybody is here tonight - with you still, everything is on the move. Uncles who have just driven through the dim Delhi lights, or sat in creaky government buses down the Himalayas are here thirsting for their dozenth cup of tea - as you lie down not complaining about the leaking urine pipe, or the skin peeling off your back like crisp chocolate foil. Nobody is waiting for you to rise. Nobody willing so that you may borrow a breath of his life. No more the father of Man, you are a scoundrel pretending to die.

Grandfather, don't give up now. We have a secret promise to keep.


Courtesy Chandrabhaga, Cuttack (2005)



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