Father died at home, in his house
looking himself in the mirror;
guiding the razor upside-down on his thin face,
pulling wrinkled skin over shrunken cheekbones,
making faces while shaving; grinning,
upsetting, teasing, and taunting the mirror,
Just then a heart-attack took him in minutes;
And the Mirror captured his soul.
The Mirror was fixed on the wall
facing the kitchen, where mother worked.
She kept her distance from the mirror,
feeling sad and scared of looking in it –
finally, covering it with a towel that father used.
Father owned the house where he died.
‘Krishna Kutir’, the house was named
after my mother, who sold it ten years later
and passed the money to his heirs.
No Father, No House. No Mirror. All gone.
A lot more went with it, my innocence, my youth.
We all grew up in it – a sister, two brothers,
mother, father – and the house itself,
which had come by chance, really.
Father had no money to buy it.
He would say. ‘I was lucky’. Yes, he was.
Indeed, lucky for an orphan and a refugee
to own a house in the capital.
For sure, those days he was lucky,
and happy too, having got a raise in salary.
He also won two lotteries in six months.
First, a ‘lucky draw’ where his name was picked
and a small flat allotted to him for small money.
Second, a ‘cash prize’ for writing a slogan
for a cigarette brand of the working class.
He used the money to part-pay the flat.
Would you believe, there was a time
when one was rewarded to smoke!
Very Lucky!
Like his income, the house too was
low income. LIG Flat they called it.
Dad was proud, ‘I made it like a bee,’
he once told me looking into the mirror.
He saved for it, every paisa he could
like a bee secreting to make a hive –
cutting on his smokes, eats, and bus fare;
cycling to work eight miles one way.
Mother sold the house as it had her name.
The mirror went with the house.
Outside the house, there was a name plate
faded, nailed to the wall, having survived
forty years of elements, envy, and evil-eye.
When Ma moved, father stayed behind
in his house. He didn’t move, he couldn’t.
His soul had been seized by the Mirror.
Not everything died with father, a lot survived.
His dreams, his books, his letters, his diaries
and the Mirror on the soiled verandah wall
from which his face followed us everywhere.
Ma brought all she could, tears & trauma in tow
and the fading nameplate, ‘Krishna Kutir’.
I, for one, couldn’t unhook the Mirror
Father held it tight.
— R, March 27, 2024
Ankahi. Unsaid. 
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