A Father’s Failing Memory

Dear Father,
It’s not that you are dead or estranged
that I cannot say these things to you,
confide in you,
like I used to before.

But you know, it would be so unlike me,
of us,
to talk on matters like these – so flimsy, so trivial.

Just like your entire existence –
you betrayed us this one last time as well.
You forgot us;
you are forgetting day by day,
every day,
every night.

I wonder,
do you even remember
your own self?

Behind the grumpy, tough, annoyed appearance – you,
we knew there existed
a warm heart soaked in the sun
that throbbed in love, fear and agony
for our wellbeing.

When the sun dawned every day,
you rushed to bring those milk packets
to Amma,
who made us – your daughters –
some sweetened almond concoction
to keep diseases at bay.

Remember how you used to be thrilled
to feed the chirping sparrows,
flocking our porch
on your humming – so mellow, so tender?

Now those newspapers lie ruffled
on our drawing room’s cracked oval glass table
for hours,
and nobody opens, reads and folds them back neatly
as you used to.

Remember that day
when you turned away your eyes from mine
which were longing for that same old gaze,
when you started searching for
your long-forgotten daughter,
while I stood there right in front of you?
It broke my heart,
and for a while, I wished you were
dead.

During those fights,
the constant bickering
and occasional sulking,
it was you who always apologised, asking,
‘Do you know a father’s heart?’

I, who waited,
grumpy and longing for you to come back,
would jump and hug you, shouting,
‘No, I don’t, and don’t want to.’

Now I stand here,
exactly on the other side,
screaming in my mind every day,
‘Do you know a daughter’s heart?’

Do you realise
that now you don’t scold me anymore,
for not calling you
exactly at 11 AM every day?

I want to tell you
that though I always hated you
for being so
adamant and protective,
I miss the same old you,
as if your silence
has left a deep, scarred vacuum
in my life.

Do you know that my heart explodes
and sighs in pain
to see my beloved father
dying, growing old
and becoming a stranger day by day?

Do you know
how a daughter feels
to see her father’s memory
receding like an ebbing tide?

Madras Courier originally ran as a broadsheet with a poetry section. It was a time when readers felt comfortable sharing glimpses of their lives through verse. If you have a poem you’d like to submit, do email us at [email protected].

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