December 15, 2015
by Vidhi Choudhary
December 10, 2015
Forty-seven days, one month and sixteen days,
a year, another year of your death,
another year since you left, abruptly.
“Time flies,”
a cliché, a cliché soaked in truth.
How can it be two years since you said, “Aavjo”
And, forced, I said goodbye too.
“Aavjo,”
you’d say on telephones and at doors,
such a cool, casual bye.
Even when you joined our ancestors
your “Aavjo” was cool and casual, but
why am I surprised. Your spirit was-is
a body running across grasslands, feeling
wind carry you, rays kiss your wrinkled cheeks.
Wherever your “Welcome” mat is now,
I know you are happy, you are at peace.
Your DNA is of a Buddhist monk, even if
your lifestyle sounded otherwise. Rumbling and
rattling is harmony you lived to, but slumber
was overdue as a borrowed library book.
You were a plunger, everyone’s plunger.
My husband said,
“Your Father never made enough money.”
True, but in a crowd of hundred, I’d salute you
(not the guy who earned enough money).
You were-are a halo. A bartender told me
yesterday that I have a sunny disposition, and
my lips stretched into a smile. Your halo
is my halo, Papa.
​
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Aavjo: See you later or Goodbye in Gujarati, a regional language in India.
24:28 IST
by Vidhi Choudhary
24:28 IST
My only wish is you lived to see me turn fifty.
It’ll remain a wish, but don’t mourners wish
on a falling star that the dead never died?
Except I cannot help but picture
your being beaming as your granddaughter
stood in a black robe with a degree in her hands.
You would’ve been the loudest cheerleader.
Perhaps there’s a reason you left, maybe
you knew we need your blessings.
We need a guardian angel holding our hand
as we learn to speak in new landscapes. You
left us for us, Papa.
Calling
by Vidhi Choudhary
Calling
Papa, I miss speaking with you the most.
How we sipped tea to discuss failures and feats.
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How ears perked like a confused puppy as you’d say, “Bali Baba.”
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How you’d ask Ma if the phone rang, as if a graduate waiting for employment.
​
I wish you would call
once, maybe twice, maybe
over and over again. This house,
this soul is parched for your voice.
​
Papa, your face floats in front of me
as an apparition, a good one of course.
​
How you’d sleep on cold marble
and breathe in balconies to
alleviate the traffic of bodies, passing like cars. I respect that, I respect you.
​
Our mailman’s bag is devoid of paper cuttings
you’d finely choose as though picking
apples from an orchard.
​
I miss you, Papa, I miss you.
Vidhi Choudhary
Vidhi Choudhary resides in Mumbai, India and is a full-time mother to a twenty-two-year-old poet and nine-year-old cocker spaniel. These poems are dedicated to her father, Kishen Majithia, who she called her Banyan tree since he continues to be her strength and roots. Both of them are characterised as giving and bold individuals by loved ones. She is a devout James Patterson reader and otherwise can be found singing along to ABBA.