from Bakho
Happy Birthday!
I was five years old
when Mumma played my birthday video
on our old, dusty VCR
to celebrate the weekend movie night—
our post-homework treat back in the ‘90s.
Gliding up and down in my mother's lap
in a rose pink frock,
there I was.
Enjoying Happy Birthday to You
by an eminent Indian singer Mohammed Rafi.
I remember clearly,
Mom's face emanated radiance
that day—An angelic aura with
a courage to hit right in the centre of a
votive object they endearingly
call the God's eye
The day mom passed away,
I listened to Happy Birthday to You
once again and closed my eyes,
waiting for the closure.
Instead, the song firmly held my hand,
presenting me a cardboard box
filled with a bunch of photographs—
the beautiful homeland of episodic memories.
Now, every time I want to feel the paleness of
her skin, or dig deep into the world
she hid so beautifully in her black braid,
I take those photographs out of the box
The horizontal lines on her face,
the silhouette of darkness on the
upper edges of her lips calmly say,
it was time for her to go.
And I finally say,
Happy Birthday to you, Mom