The Sunday Poem: Inheritance by Jeet Thayil

My mother died in January. My father, nine months later to the day. Who can blame him? Sixty-seven years of marriage would sap anybody’s will to live. The prime minister sent word. A father is the strongest pillar of support in a child’s life. His presence instils a deep sense of protection, giving strength and courage to face life’s challenges with confidence. There were policemen at the cremation ground who presented a twenty-gun salute. Nobody noticed one gun was missing. Don’t ask me why, I’m only the reporter. I couldn’t help you if I wanted to, and I don’t want to, of this much I’m certain. The empty shells fell smoking to the ground. I thought of taking one with me, to place on my desk and watch as the dull brass grows duller with thwarted ambition. But it had been a long day and a longer night. Anxious vigil at the ICU lounge. Assailed. Snorers to the left of me, insomniacs to the right. Stuck in the middle with you. A long day and the sun was high. Unseasonal warmth in the October sky. Unwanted proximity to the electric fires. His unmistakable essence around me. And so I left the shells where they smoking lay. I held out my naked hands but there was no key to the city. No support from those gathered to grieve. Somebody sang a hymn, somebody wept, somebody read from the Bible. Which would have offended the Hindus in attendance. As the fact of cremation would have offended the Christians. That right there was his last accomplishment, if you ask me. They placed him in a case, on a stand, with the words SHALOM® FUNARAL UNDERTAKERS emblazoned at the base. Above phone numbers in extra-large type. In case you wanted the same for your nearest and dearest. The typo blared unapologetic, inescapable, holding up a man who’d spent much of his life in the trenches of the war against typos. There’s a word I’m looking for. Be reft? How the bee riffed. He’d pushed the words around and now they were pushing back. He was floating in a rose-pink rectangle. He wasn’t swimming, of this much I’m certain. Well he wasn’t floating either, if truth be told. But truth isn’t the object here. We’re after something more lasting. At ninety-seven, to be held aloft by a misspelling, not floating, not swimming, appalled by the spectacle. There were pictures in his head. There were ink spots in the water. He was on a ship. He saw the Queen become the Queen. There was a question on his lips. To what does meaning adhere? No answer was apparent. It’s been a long day. I’m learning how to be reft. Of this much I’m certain.

Jeet Thayil is a prize-winning poet, novelist and musician whose books include Narcopolis and The Elsewhereans

Illustration by Chris Riddell