Chaturthi

 

Can you get me a garland of white flowers

and also some sandalwood incense please?

I’ve got cotton wicks rolled for my father

a terracotta lamp, reams of memories -

random phrases one after another

a fast spinning medley of layered stories,

and though I can’t speak too clearly this hour

there’s a mind that’s focussed on him, and peace.

 

There’s no sandalwood and no white garlands

you know that he doesn’t need any of these,

and nor do you need any unstitched garments

nor waters from sacred rivers and seas -

put a match to the wick, and cup your hands,

let the flame burn steady and that’ll be peace.

Chaturthi refers to the fourth day funeral rites, observed by a daughter for her father's soul. My father passed last Sunday. He was a pivotal presence in my life - my safety net and also my alpha reader. He read every poem I ever wrote here.

Rest well now, Baba. Rest in eternal bliss. 

Daily celebration

I did not bring up love this month, because

it felt improper to mark the personal.

The inside jobs of lawmakers and laws,

burnt tyres, broken arches - a huge betrayal

took up all the space. Smoke and vitriol

fogged every screen, an ineffable loss

in the arcs of batons and gun barrels,

shattered glass, smashed promises strewn across

the city. But then you should not equate -

this glancing away, maybe a brief silence,

a preoccupation with the external –

none of these you should consider equal

to change, and certainly not indifference.

Love’s still something I daily celebrate.

Happy birthday, Baba.

And you might enjoy looking back at this as well.