Death

They came out of the room
And said, "We are sorry.
We tried hard.
He could not make it."
We blanked out.
Mother and me.
Mother in her navy blue
 starched cotton sari.
I who had woken up
at an unearthly hour
that morning
and stayed awake.
A corrosive silence,
within.
I, who had dashed
to the hospital
on a strange premonition.
Knowing something
was going wrong.
Just in time
to see the end, end.

She wept.
I took her to a room
next door.
Sat her down.
Made a few calls.
Someone called me.
I went back to the room.
He was lying on the bed.
His body contorted
In a strange way.
His mouth open.
Was that how life left him?
Why did they not leave him
straightened out?
As asleep.
This was not my father.
This could not be my father.
This was a body.
Was he already
just that--a body?

Soon, they all came.
Friends, neighbours,
our extended adopted
family.
Someone told me
I had to go and fetch
fresh clothes for him.
The ones he was wearing
Must be discarded
and given away.
I nodded quietly.
Walked out.
Walked home
next door.
Opened the wardrobe
Took out his clothes.
Touched them one last time.
Held the coolness of his shirt
to my cheek.
My father was
in those clothes.
My daughter
looked up at me
with her two year old eyes,
tugging my kurta.
He was in her eyes; 
He was in her.

I went back to mother.
Her friends were with her.
She was crying.
Someone was hugging her.
Someone had a glass of water
in their hands.
I looked around.
My eyes, dry.
My eyes, glassy.
My face, steel.
Where were my tears?
Where was my voice.
I was talking.
Answering questions.
But, my voice
came from somewhere far.
It was not mine.

When we left the hospital,
When we came out of the room,
There were many people outside.
Other people whose loved ones
were there somewhere.
Did they know I knew death?
Did they know I had touched death?
Did they know my father,
the one who was not dead?
Had they heard his laughter?
Seen the twinkle in his eyes
When he played pranks at mother?
When he hid behind the refrigerator
and jumped out
and startled us.
He always came out
of hiding earlier.

A fortnight later,
I sat at the computer
Typing out my father's CV,
That I was supposed
to have worked on
weeks ago.
My days and nights
had been too hectic and tiring
to permit that.
I kept telling him I'd do it.
I kept telling myself to do it.
But I did not.
Now I pulled out papers,
Dug out files,
Took hold of newspaper clippings,
and pounded away
feverishly on the computer.
Refining it.
Detailing it.
Proofing it.
Refining some more.

Mother came into the room.
Sat on the bed.
Looked at the computer screen.
Looked at the papers piled up
on the table.
Asked me what I was doing.
I told her
I was working on his CV.
I had just finished working on it.
She looked at me.
She put her hand
on my shoulder. 
She told me he was dead.
Why was I doing it, at all.
I stared at the screen, hard.
The blood rushed to my head.
I sobbed at first,
And then I wept.