At my sister's child's funeral

Finally,

you did it,

the only escape you found,

the only solution you landed on,

away from the prestigious house,

smoldering in the rotten smell,

I could only see how I failed,

You broke the ceiling, drenched in mold,

masked under the family decorations,

honoring donations received upon demand,

eating the walls, feeding the house,

showcasing a pleasing picture outside,

an architecture of swords screwed inside,

I could only see how I failed, 

The elephant in the room,

controlling every move of yours and your child's,

muting every right of your voice,

allowing and probing the disturbing noise,

taped to our mouths purposely,

was a tire of shame shielding the lames,

fearing the ache, to rescue,

being a line of help,

I could only see how I failed, 

Raving about the wealth and pride,

of how lucky to have a beautiful bride,

an incubator polished in gold, a Rolls-Royce car,

a golden grandson fulfilling the house,

the privilege tamed to build a barricade,

seizing those little legs from sleeping with the mother,

I could only see how I failed, 

Never will I forget that face,

the mere smile stripped out of your being,

the stiffness in your silence filled in the space,

the room echoed your emptied belongings,

a blindfolded shawl over your body,

to shun the mirage stitched in its web,

you knew what you were doing,

you knew exactly what the end would be,

the planning in the mind that never stopped talking,

The choices, out in front,

the chances, merely upfront,

the pestering with the taunting words,

the fear of the rulings,

and in the end,

you didn't hesitate,

you 

didn't 

hesitate, 

I could only see how I failed, 

I will never forget that nod,

the slow trace from left to right,

with eyes searching in fear for a presence,

a gigantic shadow across the wall,

eavesdropping to hear what you were saying or sharing,

and the people in the house bordering your nest,

I could only see how I failed. 

Grabbing from my hands, your little boy,

glorifying words of the father and the golden grandson,

you stood behind without even a wink but a smile,

All your words were a lie,

The suffocation in your breath,

doesn't surprise me,

but somewhere deep down,

I have started to feel,

you did what you did, 

it feels alright, it doesn't feel wrong,

how much ever we cry, 

the end of the tunnel looks the same,

doesn't seem to change,

with another one along the road,

the never-ending greed,

you did what you did, 

the only escape you found,

the only solution you landed on,

away from the prestigious house,

smoldering in the rotten smell, 

I could only see how I failed. 

The grief,

living on me,

I hear the noise of the world,

the loud cry, the fear,

nothing could pump that heart that raced to stop,

Surprised, everyone displayed,

but why are you so surprised? I rage,

the constant requirement to adjust, to suppress,

to compile a safe married life, an unhappy wife,

to fulfill and let go of the demeaning hunts of the wild,

I could only see how I failed

Every day, the dwelling of helplessness,

stirred in to digest and congest the chest,

the decaying smell carried in your presence,

no one thought you would do it,

your innocent smile would cook into aisle of guiles,

I could only see how I failed 

The grip of your hold on my hand,

still carries the mark,

the silent nod from your heart, "No, I am not doing good,"

drumming in my ears,

replaying in front of my eyes, 

I grieve to death, and I ask my mom, why

Why did you compel your daughter to get married? 

When you clearly knew, 

life can become hell in the husband's house,

like hanging dolls, moving to the tied strings from the top,

and here we are witnessing the years of suppression that delivered,

I could only see how I failed 

Shattered were the beautiful wings that desired to fly,

cut out right from the change of status,

running down the fear of dependence,

asking for permissions, waiting for approvals,

strangling the woman, to not stand by her rights,

merely controlling the only factors to survive.

I could only see how I failed,

I am sorry,

I didn't bring you along with me,

left you in there doubting every minute of our last visit,

and, yet, it was,

Down on your daisy field,

looking at the crime you did,

looking at your life you slit,

the mind you let to win,

the helplessness you breathed out from within,

Remembering your last words,

whispered into my ear, with a tinge of smile, " lucky that you are far away."

And I burst out laughing, " Everyone says that! still doesn't help."

The pain endured in our eyes, "How beautifully we all are trapped. Susie!" I say

I grab on to that face,

trying to etch the last laugh rather than the thoughts that grieve,

For the final time, 

I am sorry.

No one picked your last call, your last chance,

Your last try before an escape,

The moment of hope that failed you.

I am SORRY.

I

am

SORRY.

----------------------------------------------------

Author's Note: Every time I write a post about this particular subject, there will be a long-lost friend of mine pinging to check how I am doing with a worried note. It's lovely to connect, but they always leave some highlights as they leave.

"Good that you are far away, if you were writing about these subjects back in India, you would be scrutinized over family meetings. Not just you, but your parents too will be called for. Pointing out how your husband allowed this, how your parents allowed it, etc. The endless care/advice in the name to resolve by, of course, the so-called relatives, and you end up boycotting your writing, even marriage."

And my first thought that struck, "Why should my husband allow?"

Though the thoughts shared are so true to witness, I text back with a laughing smiley,

"Not sure if I would be writing, not sure if I would have stayed married. I would have surely grown tired of being pampered in how to attend and function, placing the sugar can where it belongs, every time and for everything. Lol!"

This particular one, through the lens of Indian society, was prompted by recent suicides of women who took their children's lives as well. I find myself stalling at the repetitions in my mind and thoughts, trying to understand the desperation of the call, the fear, the broken trust, in which they didn't want the child to suffer in this world either. I don't know whether to sympathize or punish, but to live with the ache, reminding the instances of helplessness.

A similar write-up I wrote a long time ago, and I find myself repeating the thoughts and lines, realizing that unhappiness doesn't heal with time but overgrows in the surrounding presence.

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