Minakhi Misra

For a short time in my life, I thought
Dying meant going to America.
With every death in the family,
They would tell me exactly that:
Mamu has gone to America,
Or Nani has gone to America.
And they won’t be with us anymore.
Of course, I also overheard people
Talking about them being “dead”.
In my mind, it was not a confusion:
Dying meant going to America.

But I also observed sometimes,
Going to America was a sad thing.
They did not have telephones there.
And once you entered that place,
You could not come back.
Yet somehow, everyone ended up going there.
I asked about it to my mother, who only smiled
The way she smiles when she looks
At her brother’s garlanded photo
And told me I would not understand it now.

As the chasm of mistrust widens
And the rope of faith is taut,
Would you risk to walk the line
Or hesitate in your thought?

I know it’s easier to let things happen,
But is it easy to let it all go?
When the dawn breaks after the darkness,
Will your world still be so?

For this is the price of abandonment –
Tossing with loneliness on your bed.
To have to reach below for company,
To sleep with your demons instead.

When the heart that held her closely,
Embraces pain and guilt and doubt,
You might find yourself an exit,
But would it be the way out?