Picking Flowers

The fire from last night has not burned out yet

But the arrangements are done, the relatives have arrived

It’s uncanny; every pyre around his has already turned to ashes

But it seems he has not yet given up, his fire has thrived.

The Kin had woken up at six in the morning

Had missed their breakfast, and possibly would miss office as well

So many manhours expended, so much work postponed

Just to make sure that the departed soul doesn’t end up in hell.

I bring pales of water to quench the fire, as instructed

Even after ten of them, the fire is not completely out

Now people start suspecting that something is wrong

“Call the Brahmin” They holler and shout.

I continue fetching water, an act of guilt I suppose

Oblivious of the omens and bad lucks that the wise men suspect

It’s just that I had not served him enough while he was alive

Eventually it’s out on the twenty third pour, soon before the pandit came to inspect

The puja is then started, the earthen lamps are lit

Very basic mantras are recited and nothing about him is said

Hence, I doubt the authenticity and ask one of the wise men

To which he says, “It’s getting late so that is all that will be read”

I sense a little disrespect, but there isn’t anything much I can do

And as I am contemplating, they haul me back

“Son, you need to cull flowers from the ashes”

Says my father and hands me a sack

“Be careful and don’t break them. I will be collecting the ashes”

“But I don’t see any flowers” I say. “Let me collect the ash instead”

To which he says “Put anything white you see in there.”

And then I understand, “Flowers” is a euphemism for the bones of my dead granddad.

So I sit down, still astounded at what I am asked to do

But people are already late and they can’t wait for a scared grandson

Concerned eyes are already closed for good; I see only impatient ones now

Just to see how quickly can I get the job done.

So I start picking him up bone by bone, not given enough time to cry

The feeling just reaches my hands and feet, which shiver at each hold

But I see my father shed a tear, and he sees me see him

So, he just smiles at me and lets me know that for me he is brave and bold

There’s so much that is lost, but so much more that we both will need to gain
So I smile back at him and wonder

If your childhood really ends as you grow up

Or it dies with your grandmother and grandfather.