For Krishna Sawhney
1925-2019
You died while I was on the phone, unable to hear your last breath
unable to say, Barimama, stay, go another day, please.
I was to see you in two weeks, but you must have thought
it necessary to depart before my arrival.
I walked into our home, the walls shivering from your absence,
as if the house knew it was too soon to let you go.
The scent of Nivea and old age lingered on for months, and
we would occasionally get a drift of your Yardley Lavender powder.
We gave away your belongings, some too old and
tattered to be considered valuable.
But that’s the thing about India, there are enough people
to take your leftovers once you’re dead.
Enough people to find value where most can see none in the afterlife.
I returned with your photograph, and a vague feeling
of being followed across the oceans.
I placed it in my temple and spoke to it daily for a month.
Are you happy where you are? Why didn’t you wait?
I’m sure you’re not afraid anymore, you died without pain.
Initially, I would hear your voice so crystal clear,
like glass shards across marble floors, answering me back,
telling me to let you go.
I hate to say it, but it’s so much softer now, six years later.
Even when I imagine you in your blue embroidered phiran, smiling and saying,
Shikha ji, mujhe milne kab aoge? When will you come meet me?
you are but a whisper without scent.
You are so much further now than you used to be.
Not yet Barimama, not yet.
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