Him

by Sneha Subramanian Kanta
(Mumbai, Maharashtra, India)

I fondly remember the December Kolkata skies;
in which his hand shivered at the touch of the
tap water's shrill
as amma prepared dinner for the night
and baba listened to radio sangam
the static permeating through the winter
clad atmosphere

he washed the vessels
and the white kurta he got this
puja
has now become brown due to the wear and tear
of life's everyday work

he went on to then wipe the windows
and make the outside sight more clear
for us
at a time when his eyes were unable
to see with clarity

the huge garden outside the house
was tended with his coarse brown hands

the flowers are now withering outside

this evening i am alone at my desk;
looking for some familiar noises in the kitchen;
but all i hear is the static of baba's radio

amma told me he collapsed on the way to work
last evening at Kalighat
and now his widowed wife comes to talk to us
she cries for her unwed daughter
whose forehead reminds me of him
madhav kaka

a boudhi exclaims 'poor sunita, now what will
you do?'
and her eyes swell up with tears
i can imagine him laden with flowers
enough to cover his slim body

i miss him at days unsaid;
the familiar voices still permeating
the shrill of this weather