Did you ask for your ashes to be dispersed in the Indrayani
Or did we assume you’d like it that way?
We opened our fists,
and a thousand grey, powdered yous
didn’t even so much as touch the surface of the water
Before flying away in a thousand directions
Like truant children.
I find them now and then.
In the white hair of the rickshaw wala’s ears
standing at 180 degrees in the November morning breeze
In the brisk unsteadiness of a morning walker’s absent-minded refusal
to touch his walking stick to the ground
In the sudden whiff of Old Spice
As it creeps up on me in a quiet lane
In a three year old son’s left hand
casually tucked in the pocket
In the inflorescence of the canon ball tree
welcomingly strewn on the school grounds
In the immaculate recitation
of Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!).
Urn or grave couldn’t compare.
Saee Koranne Khandekar