Death, be not proud...
January is always a month of memories, the month when Death swooped in and scooped away my father, a man of whom everyone said, “The good are taken away early!” A profound saying that held no real comfort to those who were left behind to pick up the pieces of their lives and move on! The 29 th of January would always remain the day of our biggest loss, the day when there was a click of the gate at nine in the night, that hour when our lives changed irrevocably. We do no rites, our homage, more love than homage actually, dwells deep within our hearts, when we write down our feelings and talk to our mother over the phone. Our shrines stay in the recesses of our memory. “My father – I fondly recall He never once lifted his hand upon me, Except to caress; A mere raised tone Could quell my high spirits; I loved him so... My eyes fall on that page Smudged – almost blotted out A