“If you did,
it was the foot that doesn’t hurt,” I say.
He smiles.
Dazzling as polished topaz,
the tiny gold flecks in Govinda’s eyes
catch and toss
sunlight.
SACRED
WATER
Paati’s tortured breathing wakes me.
A cool predawn breeze shivers in through our window
but sweat lathers Paati’s forehead.
She mumbles something,
her words slurred, her eyes unfocused.
“Pa! Ma! Come quickly!”
I grab my crutches, then, realizing I need to use my hands,
I get my leg on instead
and hurry to fetch the small sealed pot
filled with water from the sacred Ganga river.
A copper pot that’s sat in a corner of our household altar
for as long as I can remember.
Waiting for a time of death.
I know Paati will want a drink of this water
from the holiest of rivers.
She believes it will help wash away her sins.
Though I don’t believe she sinned in this life,
I break open the seal and
dash back to our bedroom,
Ganga water sloshing.
Paati’s drawn cheeks
crease into a faint smile.
For a moment her eyes clear.
Her lips part.
I splash some water into her mouth.
She swallows.
My arms tremble.
I pour an unsteady stream on her tongue.
She lifts a hand
as if to touch my cheek
but her hand falls back
on her chest.
Her lips close.
The last of the water
spills on her chin and dribbles
down her neck.
Ma leans forward.
Shuts Paati’s eyelids.
Slides her arms around Pa.
Pa covers his face with his hands.
STRANGE COMFORT
My body feels heavy
but I go to Pa
and stroke his shaking shoulders.
When the heart-shaped leaves
of the pipul tree outside our window
start sifting through the rays of the rising sun,
Ma leaves the room.
I hear her on the phone, telling people Paati’s gone.
I stay with Pa.
Hug him tight.
Feel his tears wet my curls as he cries into my hair.