My fathers and I sit by the Hoogly
Lit by diyas glowing on dinghies
The bustling city with its pancaked lights
Refract the water in the fractured night.
They tell me how nice it was to meet
Yet another uncle who died last week
How his son was overtly devotional
The words he spoke at the funeral
His voice thick with emotion, his stories
Jostling with regret, tears and worries.
The skies have faded into a grey fog
Stars vainly try to shine in the smog
That pretends to be a cloud. How
Can I explain, that my fathers are now
Here with me. I know what they insist
I do and don’t. I could happily list
The disapprovals, acceptance, delight
If only I could have some more “last rites”,
I would not sit silently among white-clad mourners
Who pretend to care. I would talk loud and clear
I would tell the world of nights like these
Of adventures shared over seven seas
And I’d never regret. Only look back with pride,
To have known these lives. To call them mine.