One Art - Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant 
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied.  It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Do Not Fall in Love with People like ME

A poem, I saw recently:

DO NOT FALL IN LOVE WITH PEOPLE LIKE ME

Do not fall in love
With people like me.
people like me
will love you so hard
that you turn into stone
into a statue where people
come to marvel at how long
it must have taken to carve
that faraway look into your eyes


Do not fall in love with people like me
we will take you to
museums and parks
and monuments
and kiss you in every beautiful
place so that you can
never go back to them
without tasting us
like blood in your mouth

Do not come any closer.
people like me
are bombs
when our time is up
we will splatter loss
all over your walls
in angry colors
that make you wish
your doorway never
learned our name

do not fall in love
with people like me.
with the lonely ones
we will forget our own names
if it means learning yours
we will make you think
hurricanes are gentle
that pain is a gift
you will get lost
in the desperation
in the longing for something
that is always reaching
but never able to hold

do not fall in love
with people like me.
we will destroy your
apartment
we will throw apologies at you
that shatter on the floor
and cut your feet

we will never learn
how to be soft

we will leave.
we always do.

That Day

I sat there stunned, reading and re-reading the lines, refusing to believe. I got up, took a walk around the apartment, drank a little water, strolled around a little, giving myself time to think, to let it sink in. I went back to the laptop and read the lines again; they were still the same.  She was still as dead still as far away as she had been all these years. Only, now I knew that she did not willingly end it, she was forced to come to an end. It sounds odd when I write it here, but in my head these words sounded just about right. For 15 years I had thought that my mother was the biggest coward, that she couldn’t face the world and she voluntarily ended her life. For 15 years I blamed her for my shattered dream of wanting to meet her and live with her after I was an adult. I blamed her for not waiting long enough to meet us, know us spend time with us. 

Fourteen years ago, one September day, my grand parents came to my school to pick me up. “Death of a family member” read the letter they submitted to the school principal. All the way home I kept thinking to myself, has my dog died, did they find out about the boy friend, did they find something in my room, shit I am in trouble. I had no idea what I was heading home for. And my imagination kept getting the better of me. I got back home, kept my school bag in the room and came to sit with my grand ma in the living room. My grand ma had tears in her eyes and my grand father said in the most somber tone I had ever hear him speak in “Alka is dead. You mother is no more, Harnal just called to tell us. The funeral is today” I sat there stunned. Trying to take in the fact that the mother I barely knew, who had always been a mystery, the threat to our family was gone. I tried hard to digest this fact. I remember feeling indifferent, numb. We, my sister and me, changed into black clothes and we all got into the car and left for my Mama’s house. I remember the drive as if it was yesterday, I remember sitting behind my grand dad in the car, next to my grand ma staring out of the window and thinking to myself the whole way there that I will not cry. We reached my Mama’s house, and were met at the gate by my maternal grand dad and my younger Mama. They both looked like they had aged over night.  We went in and there she was. The most horrifying sight of my life, eyes open, mouth open, tongue slightly out and blue, she was blue and so cold. I cried. I cried like I had never cried in my life. My resolve to not shed a tear evaporated at the sight of her. Never in all my naïve 14 years had I thought that I would see the day my mother lay on a floor surrounded by ice, and as cold as the ice. My Nani was inconsolable, my Mami’s were howling. There were so many tears that day. My father stood stoic, not showing a single emotion. I was feeling suffocated. They took her away, eventually to the cremation ground. No sophisticated electrical cremation for my mother, we burned her. In front of my eyes, they put my mother on a funeral pyre and set fire to it. I cried some more, a lot more. We tore a grass sheaf in two and threw the pieces over our shoulders in different directions. Tradition they said, to give peace to her soul. To this day I remember tearing that grass, thinking what peace. On trembling legs I walked to the car with my sister, holding on to her hand. I had no idea how she was feeling. Inside me there was a rage, an anger with the world, with my mother, with her parents for letting her die, and with myself for feeling frustrated about the fact that I would never see her again. It had taken me years to come to terms with the fact that she was gone. That I would never see her again, that there was no running away to her at the age of 18. I regretted the fact that I never insisted on seeing her. Never pestered my Dad for wanting to meet her. It is a regret I live with till today. More than the regret, I carried with me anger at her for giving up and leaving us. I for all these years had felt betrayed by her, until yesterday when I read that post. One of my mother’s closest friends was one Ambika Pillai. She was there at the funeral she had given me a card saying if you ever want to talk to me. I kept that card with me for years. Something always held me back I suppose I didn’t want to know why my mother might have killed her self. It was hard enough accepting her early demise; I did not want to know the reason. I think I always felt that if I ever got to know I would not be able to deal with it. I used to give my depression an excuse with my mother. So, I never called Ambika. 

Recently however I started following her Facebook page. Last night, there was a post on the page: Waking Up Dead. The headline intrigued me, I started reading and mid way almost gave up as I realized it was about her father, when suddenly a name jumped up at me: Alka. She was writing about my mother. And as I read the lines, I sat there stunned. All these years I had thought that my mother had killed herself, committed suicide by ingesting cyanide. It fit the image created by my grandparents. And suddenly last night my entire world had turned upside down. There it was in black and white. Murder. Death by asphyxiation. Someone had killed my mother, in cold blood. Ambika had an idea who, and by the sound of it, my family knew as well. And still the case was closed. For fifteen years I was led to believe that my mom had committed suicide, the ultimate act of cowardice. And here was Ambika writing about how it was murder. I am still in shock. I no longer know what to think what to believe. I thank providence for whatever instinct it was that led me to open that post and continue reading it. I thought about it, long and hard, did not sleep the whole night. I consulted my friend, and I thought some more. Finally I gathered the courage to write to Ambika. By some stroke of fate, she responded, asking me to take an appointment at the salon. I introduced myself properly, I am Alka’s daughter. She responded immediately, “OMG sweetie please call me. Sakshi I’d love to hear from you, my love”. And with trembling hands I dialed her number. I am meeting her tomorrow after work. I don’t know what I am going say, how I will feel.