Dingy room of the hospital
seemed quite indifferent
as he lay still, on his water-bed.
An oxygen cylinder
which had given up hope,
stood upright, along with us.
My "well wishers", neighbours
were busy, lamenting
how good a soul
my father was.
Mother had turned to a stone by then.
And I was floating on reminiscences.
Fleeting glimpses of his taking me school
amid a heavy downpour;
his gait, his laughter
his smoking cigarette
his clearing of throat,
kept calling my name.
Smell of a bunch of incense sticks
stirred me up.
The rigid body was laid on a stretcher,
a white pillow was provided to rest his head.
His carriage was waiting.
Comforting words kept draining me,
and my mother.
It rained heavily that evening,
stars did not lit up the sky.
A couple of incense sticks
burned to their very last,
beside his photograph.
