going away: the day before

the kitchen’s
unusually quiet
this morning.
no clanking
of pots or of
water running
down the sink.
the counters
too are clean;
untouched.
there’s no marinated
meat glowing
saffron in turmeric
awaiting by the flame.
only a pot of rice
steams quietly
on the oven,
boiling starch
bubbling to its neck.
and next to it
in a deep bowl,
shimmers the last
supper’s remains.

i cut out the rice’s
flame, looking for her.
she is in the adjacent
room, hauling from
under the bed her
maroon VIP suitcase.
she racks messily
folded sarees – Bengal Taant
and South Indian silk –
in its dusty hollow.
a pharmacy envelope
with her hypertension and
B-Complex pills, ticked on
its back: Morning-Night;
is zipped to the side.
an old Eveready torch
rests between the clothes,
and in a cotton pouch
held by a drawstring,
is her gold bangles,
that she didn’t
prefer wearing in travels.
an elastic strap buckles
over in a cross to hold things in place,
before the lid comes down.
click.

i keep the ticket
in her purse. with your Boroline
and comb, letting her know.

at lunch, we do not
look at each other.
silence stealthily
crawling up my spine:
like a damp millipede
treading monsoon-earth
as our toes brush under
the table, mistakenly,
and recede. i raise my fingers
to forehead and lower it to
the base of my neck; impulsively.
she gets up from the table,
looking away and i lower the
full plates in the sink.

it’s not just
the person that
departures steal
from you. you lose
your light too,
caught in the gap
they leave in your soul.

© Sobhan