Till Death Do Us Apart

(On the occasion of Bada Mamu’s untimely death)

The mother weeps:
The irony of being caught alive
In the presence of her dead son
The sorrow of bereavement
Of her own flesh and blood
Her precious one lies cold
Under the touch of her warm fingers.

The daughter mourns:
The hand that blessed her
A million times to live a longer life
Is no more raised to protect,
The eyes that understood her every doubt
Can no more be persuaded to awake.
Is this the truth
That he will never emerge again?

The sister sheds tears:
For the memories of years
Of fun and laughter
Of fights and brawls.
Of teasing and coaxing
Of fears and galls,
Of years of growing up
Today every event seemingly unreal
As if swept away with him.

The wife grieves:
That clear day in the court of Janaka
The powerful hands of Rama that lifted the Shiva Dhanush
With such ease and austerity,
Among the hundreds of suitors gathered there
To place the garland around her neck.
That Rama lies motionless
As heavy as the bow he had stringed
O! Find me, Find me someone, a stronger hand, to lift my Rama again.

The world laments:
For another demise
For passing of another soul
Every bereavement that completes a cycle
But leaves a deeper hole.

O! Hands of Separation!
Please be Slow and please be Soft
Please be Gentle and Serene
Till death do us apart.