I never lived in that house that stood
Opposite a village of sorts, inhabited by
Builders of gravel paths, dead alleys and the ghost of a town,
A house I did not visit until
My boys began to walk, and the town's little pond
Turned into a swamp, still
At the gate of this house they would stand, all day watching
The piglets come out of the pond, happy,
Huddled in the warmth of the sun, their mothers, and several generations,
Shaking their little twisted tails as devotees would
Burst into prayers at the emergence of the priest after a solemn dip
In the holy water, based on belief, like the ritual
My father would conduct, twice a day
As he would walk through the door, slowly, up to
Where the gate ended. Nailed in the corner hung the letterbox, locked.
His expression unchanged as he returned from 
This act of complete faith—he never found any letters, yet
That is what I remember about him best.
He would cycle to Bhootnath, a market named after deity Shiva
To get the sweets and savoury that the boys loved,
Continued on that old bicycle, dressed and hair combed
Even though we visited less and less. He kept up the habit, until
The accident caused the fall.
The last time I visited the house, the letterbox
Hung rusted shut, crucified at the corner of the gate 
Guarding my father's memory, my house, 
my inheritance, and my faith.
                        

POEM
                        

POEM