A Time to Dance(69)

            “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.