Next to Indira Gandhi my father I feared the most
He was the one who told me when I was five
That dark children should only wear white.
He was the one who had no time for me
When I was growing up,
Lost and lanky with braces on my teeth
And tortoise shell glasses covering my eyes.
He was the one who attended the Rotary lunch
Every Tuesday without fail
And signed away fat cheques for charities
But when I saw him each day for half a minute
Climbing down the stair
He stared past me
His office problems kept his thoughts away from us.
Father, I ask you now without fear
Did you want me
Did you ever want a daughter
Did I disappoint you much
With my skin as dark as yours
And my brooding ways?
On Saturdays you saw the matinee show at Metro
Seated in the third row, right?
The Smiths were with you or another pair
As sleek as they
And white
Twice I sat with you; Mrs Smith had insisted on it,
The films were both Laurel and Hardy stuff
You chose my clothes for me
My tutors, my hobbies, my friends,
And at fifteen with my first saree you picked me a husband.
I am grateful
For choosing for me a man
And a life of suburban dullness
Brightened with embroidery and crochet work
And the Thursday Cookery class
But it was not the rightmost groove for me
It wasn’t my cup of tea.
I know I let you down, father,
But you have punished me enough, haven’t you?
We are quits today. You are dead, nobody fears you now
And I, freed from fear at last,
Feel no relief at all. I feel dead. More dead than you . . .