Govinda alone also sends a letter.
Dear Veda,
The verse below is from the Bible, not a Hindu text, but
it helped me when my favorite aunt died.
To every thing there is a season,
and a time to every purpose under Heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die;
a time to plant, and a time to reap;
A time to kill, and a time to heal;
a time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and a time to dance . . .
Whenever you feel it’s time to dance again,
I’ll be here, waiting.
Love,
Govinda.
I sleep with Govinda’s letter
under my pillow.
HOLDING ON
For twelve days,
priests light a ceremonial fire in the center of our hall.
For twelve days,
priests guide Pa as he performs Paati’s final rites.
They pray to Shiva, creator of worlds, destroyer of evil.
He is bliss, they say.
From joy were we made,
by joy do we live,
and unto joy
do we return.
Pa mouths the prayers.
I can’t tell if he takes any comfort in them.
The words fall with dull thuds on my ears.
On the thirteenth day, Pa’s family from far away joins us.
We feast together and then they leave and the priests leave.
Pa says, “It’s time we collected all of Paati’s things
to give to the poor.”
But when he comes to my room to take Paati’s trunk away,
I throw myself over it,
shouting, “No!”
Tears burst out of me.
“It’s the custom,” Pa says, gently. “Giving her things
away to charity
is a tradition she’d want us to follow.
It doesn’t mean we’ll forget her.”
An endless stream of tears
pours down my face.
Ma rubs my back.
Pa returns the trunk to its place under Paati’s bed.
But I can’t
stop
sobbing.
VISITATION
A ghost visits me that night.
Not Paati. I’d have welcomed her.
Instead, the lost length of leg beneath my knee
prickles.
An invisible reincarnation
taunting me.
Worse than any ghost story Paati told,
this haunting phantom flesh.
My moans bring Ma and Pa rushing to my bed.
They can’t exorcise my pain.