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Last night I dreamt of my grandfather
Who died six months ago.
Passed away, people speak in my ear.
Yes, passed away. He passed away.
He passed away on one fine Saturday.

Two days ago, I wrote a poem.
A friend said, “Write one for him too.”
A eulogy?
My grandfather died six months ago.

He left a cane behind,
a torch
And diaries scrawled with debts:
Jamaal, 300.
Kamaal, 500.
Even our milkman who helped dig a grave.

Abu ji, dear Abu ji—We called.
Abu Ji died six months ago.
Passed away, they say. He passed away.
His friends say he passed away.
His sons say he passed away.
His wife—she says it too.
He passed away, they all say.

Last year, he gave me a shirt to wear
and a belt of fine yellow leather.
“This, I bought in the 60’s when I was young.
This, I bought when I was married.”
He talked of two dozen friends often,
a menudo, mi abuelo, Sus amigos.
I learned in Spanish.
A menudo: often,
Mi abuelo: My grandfather.
Sus amigos: His friends.
He spoke of his friends,
“My friends.”
Men, tall men in long boots and khaki uniforms,
who called him “Inspector,”, “Our dear inspector”
mis amigos y sus zapatos, I learned again.

Before he died, he asked
In a voice, strong, shrewd, and tired,
“Who won the election?”
“No one, for now.
Here, Congress had a rally today.
Yes, he… came to speak too.”
“A brave man,” he said.
“Yet…”

My grandfather died six months ago,
Suddenly. Of a heart attack.
I suppose.
I calmed his face by rubbing his chin,
He stared at me in a silent disbelief.
I took him to a hospital, my brother too,
“Check his pulse.”
“Is he breathing?”
“let’s turn back. There is no point.”

In the hospital, I was the brave one.
Even so, braver was my brother,
Quieter, shaken–he didn’t cry.
Nor did he in the ambulance,
Or at home.

Wrapped in a red blanket,
“Wait, did you tie his mouth?”
“Here. Take this bandage,
Tuck it beneath his chin.
What a fine beard.
What a fine man.
Are you the adult here?
Call your father”

“Father, come home. Abu Ji died.”
“Passed away,”. “He passed away.”
“Yes. He passed away.”
Brother, however younger, pats my shoulder,
“Do not cry. What shall we say?
What shall we ever say?”
“To whom?
“to mummy?”
We call our grandmother mummy.
“Yes, what shall we tell mummy?”
Abu Ji died. he died six months ago.
Passed away, she’d say. Passed away.

He died at noon. While eating.
He had only started.
A morsel of rice, dry in his white palm,
Mother screamed in disbelief,
I ran down, so did my brother
who had just come home.

“Why didn’t you come yesterday?
When I asked you to come yesterday,”
Abu Ji had said.
Then gave him all his keys
in an untimely hour.
“Quite lucky,” they said. “He gave you his keys before he died.”
Passed away, he says. He passed away.

Mother said, “Abu Ji called your name before he died.”
Passed away, she says. He passed away.
“He called your name before he passed away.”
I am shy about writing my name,
Too reserved to write my name.
If my name was Kamal, Abu Ji said,
“Kamal, come to me, I will die.”
If I was named Jamal, Abu Ji said,
“Jamal, come to me, I will die.”
Mother swears she heard it.
While Grandma was lost somewhere else.
“I heard him, he called your name.”
I do not believe it,
Not even six months later.


We came back in an ambulance
Received by 300 strange men
With 300 different hats
Men I only nodded to.
Men, who would visit my grandfather often.
“Pity, he was great.”
“Indeed. He was.”
“Oh, how every soul shall taste death”

Grandmother cried in disbelief,
“He did not die. Nor pass away.”
“Yes, you are right.”
“Yes, you are right.”

My grandfather died.
Six months ago.
I no longer cried; only felt sad.
Talk to people, I hear them say.
My great, great aunt and her great, great uncle
To their dismay
I thought of an old friend
who never calls.

My grandfather died,
Two months later, I met a friend
Where were you all this time?
She says, “I am sorry. Was he sick?”
I say, “It is all right. He was just old”
It is not all right.
“Do you miss him?” she asked again.
“I do not want to talk about it,” in disdain.
Not with her. Ever again.


My grandfather died,
Some say he called my name,
While others say he was a great man.
He left me an old ashtray,
his two diaries and a cane.
I do not want a key.
Or a shirt.
Or a belt from a forgotten age.

Last week, an old politician breathed his last,
This week, a city fell to a wildfire’s wrath.
Who is left to talk to anymore?
Last night I dreamt of him, saying that
wise old man is gone!
“Abu Ji, that city itself is ash and smoke too.”
What a pity.
My grandfather died.
Passed away; I remind myself.
Six months ago, he passed away.
Abu Ji, Dear Abu Ji.
To all grandfathers who make your lives better.
To all the best friends who always make you laugh.
For Her
Appearance doesn't matter,
But a kind heart does.
Unwanted attention? No.
A true shoulder to lean on — yes.
Fake concerns don’t move her,
But sincere words always will.

Yes —
She may seem strange to you,
Because you can't decipher her soul.
She’s a rare gem
Amid all the world’s noisy pleasures...
She shines brightest
In the quiet kingdom of her own world.
"She isn’t defined by the world’s standards — she listens with her soul, loves with her heart, and lives in her truth."
An abundance of life
In a cycle of death
How much living
Could we have left?

An abundance of stars
Displayed in the sky
Endless pleasures
On a summer's night
Hear and see
Touch and feel
The reality of existence
Consume at will

An abundance of love
To plant in our graves
Pushing up daisies
I wish we could stay
......
Traveler Tim
A depressive episode
Is a terrible experience
But once you're through
All the chaos and despair
The aftermath can be
Even worse...

Every color fade
Like you're watching life
Through an analog filter
While everyday tasks
Seem like climbing
Mount Everest

But we keep going
We somehow accomplish
Our extraordinary ordinary
Invisible little struggles
Just to get through
Another day

And maybe that's enough
It's been 2 months since my last depressive episode...
Are you really that curious
About what lies beyond
This gate
Where the moss collects?

The trees have kept it
In their shade for a reason
Away from the world
Of changing seasons

Are you really curious
About whereto the river flows
Moving through the inner works
Of a forest flourishing with hope?

The sun barely shines over there
It is hidden away from the world outside
An entire terrarium tucked away in the Cosmos
Safe from the narrow minded

So, when you're in doubt
About how much you're worth
Think - this is life
In all its glorious darkness
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