On a sunny morning
when the sunlight fell
in between the trees
my brother left this place.
We were playing on the meadows
where the black dragonfly
used to fly.
He wanted to tell me something......
But before the words came out
from his tender lips,
all of a sudden, a tree’s branch
fell on him.
Before knowing that it was death
he traveled to death...
Later we put on white clothes on him
adorned his head with a crown of flowers
covered him with rose petals
and cremated him
where the trees guarded the grave,
leaving him alone in the cold solitude of the graveyard.
In a bold voice the priest said
“ Don’t grieve
by this time he must have turned
into a little angel
and is seated on God’s lap.
It’s a custom that
the sinless and the kids
turn into angels after death.....”
Hearing this, our old servant
who is an outcast , whispered in my ear,
it’s not true......
It’s a custom that
the kids who die
become little birds and fireflies
and wander here itself.......
I did not think
As to what is right and what is wrong !
I was thinking of that word
which he did not utter......
What is that my brother
wanted to tell me ?
It’s years since he departed.
The only thoughts that remain are
his muddy slippers,
his shirt with the smell of milk,
the fruit in his pocket
plucked from a Christmas tree....
and his sorrowful thoughts....
Even today,
when the sunlight falls in between the trees
I think of that word
which he did not utter ,
What might have happened ?
Where did the word reside ?
What about the thoughts of the dead
which were not shared and spoken ?
On which branch they would reside ?
At last,
where do they seek shelter ?
Published in the Journal Chandrabhagha – issue of 9/2004
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