“Paati would have wanted to die this way,” I tell him. “Quietly.
At home. In her bed. The three of us close by.”
He nods, still hunched over.
Finally,
he says, “I didn’t think of the Ganga water.
I’m glad you remembered.”
Tears well up within me
but they can’t find their way out.
Day breaks in
through the window.
A bucket of gold melting from the sky.
Visitors gather on the sitting room floor in a circle:
the Subramaniams and our other neighbors;
three old students of Paati’s;
Pa’s and Ma’s colleagues;
members of Pa’s extended family.
Chandra arrives with her grandma, parents, and sisters.
I lean my head against Chandra’s shoulder.
Still, I’m unable to weep.
People speak about Paati’s kindness,
her helpfulness, her wonderful cooking,
how brave she was, how unusual a widow for her time,
how her firm faith inspired them.
One of Paati’s old students says,
“She taught us not only in class,
but also by setting us an example
of how to act in our lives.”
Mrs. Subramaniam says,
“Your paati treated everyone so lovingly
I’m sure her soul doesn’t need to be reborn in the world.
She’ll now be united with God.”
Listening to stranger after stranger
speak of Paati with love and admiration,
I begin to understand how Gautami
took comfort in the tales of strangers
after she lost her son.
The strangers’ presence feels warm as a blanket.
But not warm enough
to thaw the sea of unshed tears
frozen inside me.
SWOLLEN
After
Pa leaves with Paati’s body for the cremation ground,
others leave but Chandra stays.
She helps
me and Ma clean the house.
Ma is afraid I’ll slip and hurt myself
but I mop the floor of what is now
just—my—bedroom.
Crawling on hands and knees
I dip a sponge in soapy water,
scrub the tiles, wring it dry.
Chandra’s cheeks glisten.
Wet as the mopped floor.
I’m a soaked sponge.
Swollen with tears.
A TIME
to
DANCE
I mail Govinda and akka a note
to say I won’t be at our dance school
until Paati’s twelve-day mourning period has ended.
A condolence card arrives
signed by akka, Radhika, and Govinda.