That journey from Morgue was hardly an hour and a half
But my travail took me through thirty years,
Holding his cradle tight, lest to wake him up from that eternal sleep

As he was laid in that ambulance all dressed up for his final journey,
He looked the smart, tall "Chettan ", unlike the child I tended a month back
Forlorn in some early childhood shores, courtesy the Alzheimer's

A bump ahead on the road shook the ambulance and me from my thoughts
In a reflex, my hands went to hold him from falling from the cradle
An eerie chill went through my spine, he was ice cold- the body was in Morgue for long

Water soaks through his new shirt, ice melts in the outside heat
“Chettan” who stood so tall for you to always looked up to…
Who came with abundance in his back pack every Friday

With his Murphy radio playing melodies deep in to the nights
With his cloak work precisions for breakfast to dinner times
With his grins and growls that moved the moods of “Chechi ”

Have you ever tried to feel a body from the morgue?
An ice cold, motion less, sensor less body
That moment and the eerie chill is a revelation
Death is so penetratingly cold
That you wish you don’t have senses to feel it anymore

Ambulance halted at the large assemblage of mourners
I stepped out, a furious movie flash back playing in that ‘space within my heart’
He laid there- ice cold; waiting to be escorted, to the pyre;
With that space within his heart gone to a void, unwittingly

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