Thatha

Sometimes, dreams are the closest I get to the other world.

The is has become was:

no more stories, only memories.

 

Everybody who comes home only reminds us

that you aren’t anymore;

you were.

 

But

you’ve found a way

to come back stay on.

 

For every time you made me pray at night to ward off any dreams,

it’s where you visit me these days.

 

---

 

First - 20 days later:

You’re sitting

at your usual spot in the living room,

looking at me

(with that look when I would cut your toe-nails).

 

I woke up happier than I’d been in a while.

 

I cried in the bathroom, knowing that’s all I have left of you.

 

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Second - 23 days later:

A dark corridor,

but I can see you clearly.

You aren’t walking on the floor by my side,

you’re floating.

 

“Thatha, I miss you”

 

You didn’t say it back to me.

 

“How are you?” you ask me.                         

 

It’s all that ever mattered matters to you.

 

“I’m okay…And you?”

 

“I’m fine. I feel no pain.”

 

It’s all that matters to me.

 

Thanks for the update.

 

---

 

Third - 34 days later:

It’s dark, again.

 

Why can’t you come visit me in some bright, sunny place?

 

We’re riding a bike

Through streets I’ve never seen before.

Also, you’re zooming at a speed that

I doubt would’ve is good for your age.

Slow down a bit!

 

You like quickness, don’t you?

You didn’t pause for a second longer when you left us.

 

There’s a hall you want me to take you to.

But there are about 20 steps you need to walk down.

“Can you walk them?”

“Of course! Just hold my hand,”

And you stretch your hand

For me to clutch it.

 

Your hands are cold.

Your skin feels like tissue paper.

 

Suddenly

you’re lying on a bed next to me.

You’re putting me to sleep,

singing me your songs.

 

“Ayodhya ke raja,

Rama mera praanadaatha

Raksha karo Ramachandra

Sada Raksha karo Ramachandra”

in your not-so-perfect Hindi accent.

 

You’re shaking, again.

Your hands are trying to hold onto me.

 

You don’t get to die in my dreams too.

 

It’s that bloody cardiac arrest.

 

At least this time I know what it is.

 

You stop shaking.

You loosen your arms and legs.

You’re fine.

“Nothing, kondhe” you say.

 

Why didn’t you loosen your arms and legs that day?

You shook and shook.

Then stopped.

 

 

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I’ll see you soon.

You will come back,

won’t you?

At least in my dreams?