When I say I don't miss you, or that I've got used to the void of your absence,
I Lie.
Because I do miss You a lot,
I miss you and me and the certain kind of us that we were,
together and apart.
I miss a lot of those small things more than the big, noisy, visible ones —
like the whiff of debate and disagreement arriving ahead of our chats,
many such after the morning newspaper or the evening news ritual;
Or that lull throbbing with the hope of hearing your firm, small voice across the phone-line
as Ma got you on the line to talk during my daily catch up calls,
filling up time imagining the peculiar shuffle of you feet
to rise from your age-old armchair
as you got to the phone,
filling up time imagining the peculiar shuffle of you feet
to rise from your age-old armchair
as you got to the phone,
as I'd try to gauge an understating of your degenerating health.
(I never did tell you though what your weak, feeble voice of some days did to me!)
Or the sound of silence that lurked around and between us
at odd times,
at odd times,
holding us together in a comforting hammock like space.
I miss the understanding that always followed and rested—said or unsaid.
I miss those special turns and twists our chats and sharing would take because of both our kind of probing and telling to each other.
I do Miss You.
And when I say I don't, I'm not quite owning my truth.
Because I also miss Me.
I miss the daughter I was,
good, bad and in between quite often—the kind I was able to be in your presence;
The kind I was able to be knowing that we were breathing the same day—however separated by air-miles;
Or knowing that we were looking at the same sky—if you happened to glance up from the terrace,
Or that you wondered about what I was upto as often as I did about you;
The kind I was able to be in the moments wombed
in the comfort of your presence—warm or cold,
because God knows there were moments of cold as well, just as naturally.
I Miss You,
I miss the truth of our knowing of each other,
held in mutual response, reaction and presence.
And mostly, I Miss the big, bold, soul comforting truth that You are around.
I Miss you Baba.
And this minute pincered with your presence,
as I hear you say 'Bhalo Theko Maa',
I send you a message that I am well—'Bhalo Acchi Baba'.
(Written on November 4, 2016)
5 comments:
'Bhalo Theko Maa'!! �� An eerie feeling..! Either you say this when you stop being an anchor believing in the upbringing, that brought your children to what they're today OR when you have given up on yourself with growing age and fragility seeping in. He started toggling between the two, too early ��! I can't step into his shoes but could never graduated to sit and understand him.. Remembering Baba is like a silent wind by the river where I drowned his remains and at times asking him why? Often stumble with the fact of not understanding myself.. He still smiles on me!!
Just to correct.. Often stumble upon the fact of not understanding myself enough to understand him.. 😊 He still smiles on me!!
Love you Sis..! Happy Bhai Phota!
He started saying ' bhalo theko ma' to me pretty early as I moved on and away almost like in a combination of both those possibilities: giving up with age and no longer feeling like the provider/anchor of my life. Yes his solid- unspoken faith in his upbringing of us was the peace he might've felt despite my leaving the anchorage ! I will never know this for sure but always felt it - that he believed I would not do too badly/ or be wrong for myself .:)
I can hear him too often and often see him (his eyes full of plea just as I remember seeing him last, leaving him behind in the hospital bed on a day when we almost lost him - a good week before we finally lost him, forever)
When I hear his voice float up to me I get the same vivid feeling that he's blowing in the wind; mellow and strong simultaneously
Love you too bro
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