REMEMBERING
FATHER
-
Tapan Kumar Pradhan (India)
The day father became a postage stamp,
mother wept
each time they hammered the heavy round
metal seal
father’s round glasses shattered;
without them he was blind
She wept, for she never knew father
would become so great
after death. Had she known, she would
never have fought
with him, each night, for his queer
antics. For one, he slept
with young girls half his daughter’s
age, to prove a point
Not only that, he kept a nanny goat a this
rear balcony
With all that ba-ba early mornings –
neighbours fumed
But goat milk was good for health he
said, kept one away
From sick impure thoughts. He also had
a couple of cows
With the fresh dung women of the
household were taught
to polish front courtyard. Purified the
air he said, it kept
gnats at bay. Cowwas also abode of
Laxmi, the Goddess
of Wealth. Though father never made
much wealth in life
he made many friends, some even got
cured of ailments
by drinking urine. No one ever touched
meat or wine
in father’s village. If anyone took, he
was sure to hear
at midnight, the dead goat inside his
stomach wailing
in a woman’s voice. Oh it was so scary
- when he died
father became a stone -and a cobbled
road. A sparrow
built a nest on father’s round head, before
he became
a crumpled currency note. Each time you
stapled a pin
it entered his left eye, and came out
piercing through
his tooth less mouth - “Aww….what a
torture !” they cried
and banned the stapling of notes. But
it was the best thing
that happened to father’s memory. Now they
keep him
in their shirt pockets, warm, folded
close to their hearts
where faith and hope coexist – faith which
can move
a slumberous mountain -and hope which
can unfurl
a forgetful nation’s twisted destiny.
****