Sum of my parts

The placid, coquettish girl in the back
of my classroom used to laugh like
an old radio coming to life:
inaudible at first, until it filled you with childhood warmth.
It isingrained in my lifeless flesh,
the only way my rigid cheek muscle pulls apart.
Then tell me who saysshe is dead.

Seema Aunty from Arera colony
with her bulky black hair falling down her thighs,
carefully, meticulously wrapped her hair
around her petite fingerstwice and
secured it on her crown with a Juda stick only.
Look at my house now: Juda sticks for days, in
blues and greens and reds, with big polka dots
and geometric linear patterns.
Then tell me who saysshe is dead.

That neighbour from the
forgotten rented 2BHK apartment
in Santa Cruz made sure to teach
everyone around that gifts are always meant
to be bestowed with a handwritten note.
Every weekend he would travel amidst
the Mumbai traffic, the berating rains, the howls
ofstreet vendors, only to buy herstationary.
Never have I ever given another
dress or watch or dinner-set without a
a decorated card or hastily scribbled notes on a napkin.
Then tell me who says he is dead.

My grandfather, an eccentric mix of the sciences
and the art,symbolised the spectrum of humanity,
and echoed it in his writing.
An author of poems and books,
a grandiose orrator; a storyteller; a wordsmith.
He livesin every word I write, in every
poem I’ve ever written, every manuscript
I will ever write. He breathesin every drop
of ink Ismudge from my hand, and that
taints my unblemished paper.
Then tell me who says he is dead.

For every day Isoak the blinding sun’s warmth,
I inhale parts of those who surround me.
For every moon I pass, I am never greater
than the sum of my parts.
For every year I live, I carry a life with me.
Then tell me who says people die.