Sankar Roy – Ⅲ

Now That You Are Gone 

 

 

 

 

 

into the touchless, odorless space

where all dimensions suddenly shrink

into the memory’s embryo,

leaving behind your silvery hair, creased skin

and a pair of cataract-eyes, I almost forget you.

Now I hold your grandson’s hand and walk

across a foreign land. We find grasshopper larvae

under the unknown trees. We observe

plethora of ant eggs in the debris of a barn.

We watch starry flames, alive in the windswept nights.

Together, we identify the North Star, Polaris.

I read him stories of Buddha’s re-births. I remain awake

to recite the Gita’s impersonal verse.

Unnecessarily he sobs, I search

the answer to two plus two. Why at age seventy-two

you loved my Mother more than you did at thirty two?

Why do I feel this urge to hide in the attic

of our childhood home? And why

I am still afraid of the smooth handle

of your hand fan? Tonight father,

before your grandson went to bed, I made sure

there would be no bitterness in his dream,

monks weaving a cloth of light

and singing an idyllic verse:

 

There is no rage; there is no fear 

and no one is ever sad in any sphere.