Water pushed by the hands of breeze, waving waves, Grey cloud frozen on the sky, his mother’s body is still burning. Fire eats her skin very slowly, slowly like a move of early morning mist. He avoids crying in front of these people.
Whether a death is considered as a question or answer? These questions and answers never die. I always like to live like a question without an answer. A doubt creates one question, that question creates one answer, but that one answer would develop more questions. Answers are all toxicant, a very slow poison which eats our mind to drag us in to a numb world. All the questions don’t have a long life to help our doubts, like a stone which thrown into a deep silent lake. We never tried to count the questions which we buried inside us. Is it still alive? Those are converted into heartbeats or tears or smiles, I think sometimes.
This death made me to sculpt many questions. I didn’t try to concern the shape of it, but I do to pull my pains. He is my father who is standing in front of the fire and doing the final deeds. A man who is living with his expectations, now, he is watching his mother who has no shape, no beats, no voice, no identity. I decided to drag me out from that place because of the continuous push of my emotions.
When I was with my grandmother, she used to say she will watch me even after her death. I laughed at her to tease her more for the death promise. What she meant was totally unclear to me till now. Tranquilly I tried to console my memories. Anyone can easily find the warm words to show the affection between a grandmother and grandchildren.
Many times she smelt my forehead and kissed my fat cheek.