the dinner table has been collecting dust,
because papa and mehak don't speak to each other;
who stopped speaking first-
has always been a mystery,
like the conversations had died
A natural death.
Like Mr. Prasad, neighbour, seventy-five.
what does one say to a father-
Mehak wonders,
Do you talk about the colour of your lehenga,
Or the test papers you recently aced?
Can you speak about the last guy you kissed-
And how the subzi-wallah, always gives you free lemons?
Is this enough for conversation?
When you speak to the chair at dinner-
Occupied by the papa-shaped hole in your heart?
But papa doesn't seem to be present-
And he stopped being interested a long time ago.
Handing year after year an unwrapped heartbreak,
With every last minute, half-hearted birthday wish
Of every parent-teacher meeting attended only because;
It was on the way to his Mistress's house.
How had heartbreak slithered it's way;
From actresses on the TV screen-
To the mundanity of spelling bee competitions?
How had heartbreak compressed itself into
Twenty minutes waiting for the school bus on the footpath of Mistress's street?
Low maintenance parenting condensed to-
Silence and a last minute 'all the best'.
Mehak has been looking for a handbook-
for daughters who must grieve
Fathers who wear size six Reebok shoes,
Carry oversized binoculars on family vacations;
And never say I'm sorry, i love you or thank-you
Fathers who have an insatiable appetite for rosogolla and jalebis
And murder a family.
When I can't sleep at night,
I often wonder-
Will I cry when papa dies?
And the ambiguity in my answer
is always a relief-
Because it has been a long while
Since papa and I spoke to each other.
YOU ARE READING
Sunshine, Autumn Witches & Other Lies
PoetryA collection of poems that have whatsoever no connection to what I'm feeling but nevertheless has been written. You know, because if I have to be sad might as well make it aesthetic.
