Last night I dreamt of my grandfather
Who died six months ago.
Passed away, people speak in my ear.
Yes, passed away. He passed away.
He passed away on one fine Saturday.

Two days ago, I wrote a poem.
A friend said, “Write one for him too.”
A eulogy?
My grandfather died six months ago.

He left a cane behind,
a torch
And diaries scrawled with debts:
Jamaal, 300.
Kamaal, 500.
Even our milkman who helped dig a grave.

Abu ji, dear Abu ji—We called.
Abu Ji died six months ago.
Passed away, they say. He passed away.
His friends say he passed away.
His sons say he passed away.
His wife—she says it too.
He passed away, they all say.

Last year, he gave me a shirt to wear
and a belt of fine yellow leather.
“This, I bought in the 60’s when I was young.
This, I bought when I was married.”
He talked of two dozen friends often,
a menudo, mi abuelo, Sus amigos.
I learned in Spanish.
A menudo: often,
Mi abuelo: My grandfather.
Sus amigos: His friends.
He spoke of his friends,
“My friends.”
Men, tall men in long boots and khaki uniforms,
who called him “Inspector,”, “Our dear inspector”
mis amigos y sus zapatos, I learned again.

Before he died, he asked
In a voice, strong, shrewd, and tired,
“Who won the election?”
“No one, for now.
Here, Congress had a rally today.
Yes, he… came to speak too.”
“A brave man,” he said.
“Yet…”

My grandfather died six months ago,
Suddenly. Of a heart attack.
I suppose.
I calmed his face by rubbing his chin,
He stared at me in a silent disbelief.
I took him to a hospital, my brother too,
“Check his pulse.”
“Is he breathing?”
“let’s turn back. There is no point.”

In the hospital, I was the brave one.
Even so, braver was my brother,
Quieter, shaken–he didn’t cry.
Nor did he in the ambulance,
Or at home.

Wrapped in a red blanket,
“Wait, did you tie his mouth?”
“Here. Take this bandage,
Tuck it beneath his chin.
What a fine beard.
What a fine man.
Are you the adult here?
Call your father”

“Father, come home. Abu Ji died.”
“Passed away,”. “He passed away.”
“Yes. He passed away.”
Brother, however younger, pats my shoulder,
“Do not cry. What shall we say?
What shall we ever say?”
“To whom?
“to mummy?”
We call our grandmother mummy.
“Yes, what shall we tell mummy?”
Abu Ji died. he died six months ago.
Passed away, she’d say. Passed away.

He died at noon. While eating.
He had only started.
A morsel of rice, dry in his white palm,
Mother screamed in disbelief,
I ran down, so did my brother
who had just come home.

“Why didn’t you come yesterday?
When I asked you to come yesterday,”
Abu Ji had said.
Then gave him all his keys
in an untimely hour.
“Quite lucky,” they said. “He gave you his keys before he died.”
Passed away, he says. He passed away.

Mother said, “Abu Ji called your name before he died.”
Passed away, she says. He passed away.
“He called your name before he passed away.”
I am shy about writing my name,
Too reserved to write my name.
If my name was Kamal, Abu Ji said,
“Kamal, come to me, I will die.”
If I was named Jamal, Abu Ji said,
“Jamal, come to me, I will die.”
Mother swears she heard it.
While Grandma was lost somewhere else.
“I heard him, he called your name.”
I do not believe it,
Not even six months later.


We came back in an ambulance
Received by 300 strange men
With 300 different hats
Men I only nodded to.
Men, who would visit my grandfather often.
“Pity, he was great.”
“Indeed. He was.”
“Oh, how every soul shall taste death”

Grandmother cried in disbelief,
“He did not die. Nor pass away.”
“Yes, you are right.”
“Yes, you are right.”

My grandfather died.
Six months ago.
I no longer cried; only felt sad.
Talk to people, I hear them say.
My great, great aunt and her great, great uncle
To their dismay
I thought of an old friend
who never calls.

My grandfather died,
Two months later, I met a friend
Where were you all this time?
She says, “I am sorry. Was he sick?”
I say, “It is all right. He was just old”
It is not all right.
“Do you miss him?” she asked again.
“I do not want to talk about it,” in disdain.
Not with her. Ever again.


My grandfather died,
Some say he called my name,
While others say he was a great man.
He left me an old ashtray,
his two diaries and a cane.
I do not want a key.
Or a shirt.
Or a belt from a forgotten age.

Last week, an old politician breathed his last,
This week, a city fell to a wildfire’s wrath.
Who is left to talk to anymore?
Last night I dreamt of him, saying that
wise old man is gone!
“Abu Ji, that city itself is ash and smoke too.”
What a pity.
My grandfather died.
Passed away; I remind myself.
Six months ago, he passed away.
Abu Ji, Dear Abu Ji.

There is a mad place inside some certain
Cold lane where windows creak with
Each gentle whisper.
Surely some revelation is at hand,
Surely someone is to come.
But this mad place, oh this mad place.

It beats and it beats, night and day
And doesn’t stop to sit to mourn or
Feel, this mad place, oh but
Surely some revelation is at hand,
Surely one might someday let it out.

In times of despair, one thinks of
Old age, one thinks of holding hands
And one thinks of committing a sin,
But this mad place, it never stops
To dream, da dum, da dum, indeed,
It beats and it beats!

One day, maybe, it will find a way
To figure it out, one day, or perhaps,
I shall grow a wing, or least
find a way to live with it,
But seldom, will it stop?

When will it stop? When
Will it make sense to stop?
Surely there must be something,
Some shade under a tree

Or some fine stone to sit on.
Oh but this mad place,
this mad place, this restless bird,
When would it drop the shiny pebble from its hands?

Yes, there are times when it lets out a sigh,
Mostly out of desperation. But
When the night passes, it makes up lies
It doesn’t look back to see what it said.

Does it even means what it says?
Does it even bother to say what it means?
This mad place, this uncaged cage,
What does it seem to wait for?
Who is to come? What is to come?

This mad place, this mad place,
When the words fly like out of season
Birds, when it squeaks like winter winds,
Maybe it will think to stop, or ask,
Surely someone is to come.
Surely some revelation is at hand!

And how does one ask for help? Or plead and not feel
Pity, shame? And does one ever grunt and say what one needs to say?
At some point in the yarn of the time, how does one
Look over one’s shoulder to reconcile,
How does one open a mouth to say
“I am lost. I think” But does one truly think,
Or act on the impulses.
Or calm oneself to ask. Ask!


And “When should I think?” I ask
“soon,” I say, “soon, on some wintery night,
When my windowpanes creak in the cold,
When my steel glass never gets warm,
I might think or ask, how does one not think?
and find a reason to reason with it;
The weary long journey, how it doesn’t end
And seems to start at every corner of the road”
“Perhaps, I shall shave my head
and wash my face with some fragrant soap
or trim my beard to look sharp and address it,
perhaps, soon!”

Come, see, I have some pain in chest,
Come, let me put your arms around me!
Here, see the coldness in my soul,
Come let me hear the sound of your breath,

Come, hide yourself in my breast,
Come let's escape from this world
Let me steal from hearts of others
Come, Let me shed all the tears of grief,

I've a home, conquered by your absence,
A heart, stabbed by your desolation,
Let me be the consolation under your feet,
Come, let me hear my name from your tongue!

Look at these beautiful leaves,
These graceful colours,
Alas! These leaves betray the trees,
These colours fade away and
This reminds me of you!

Look at these beautiful streams
These unagitated waters,
Alas! These waters form fierce storms
Everywhere, look, there are people dancing
Look there is a charming joy spread everywhere,
Alas! These dances change into mournings
This joy too falls away,
And this reminds me of you!

These changing seasons, these uncertain rains,
These burning souls, these unhonoured promises,
These broken down people, these flowing tears
Everything that exists, reminds me of you!

There is a chaos in my beats,
A sound of some sin keeps calling me
The elicited filth is blurring my vision
The guilt of my iniquitous deeds keeps visiting me!

A conflict is there, between my soul and body,
I am pulling away from myself to myself!
This pain in my heart keeps withering my poor soul!

In search of love, I left no stone unturned!
My toes are bruised while walking barefoot up to hills,
I've seen the thorns stuck in my skin and flesh!
O death! Come take me away from myself!!

I've been falling from the skies
And I see no grounds, where I can just strike,
Where my blood will smear all over.
Nah! No poem or any story is it!
Just an image of my thoughts!
How beautifully am i messed!
How my flaws are haunting me!
I see nightmares, in which I've seen my death
They, taking me in a coffin, walking so fast!
I see myself crying, hailing as loud as possible
They ain't listening to me!
Then I open my eyes and see I'm still alive
But look! I am dead inside!
Now no one is carrying me!
No coffins, no crowds, but a lone me!
I cry, I hail, they hear and laugh!
I see a darkness all around,
I see some ascaping souls,
Laughter of them tears my heart!
I see moments stuck,
I see the fierce sounds arising from somewhere!
Why this restlessness my friend? Why?
Now come, emerge from this darkness  
For my quests are unfinished without you!