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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.



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.

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.


by Vidhi Choudhary


Papa, I miss speaking with you the most.


How we sipped tea to discuss failures and feats.


How ears perked like a confused puppy as you’d say, “Bali Baba.”


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.

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