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It was a winter evening, the sun had to go early.
I could hear the cry of our dear cat, his sunken eyes wished
to tell a pathetic story, steps tattered and wished to
say-''I am too exhausted to walk''.
His broken voice
reminded me of the broken string of my heart that
I played one day,
he hid the thick tears
behind the curtain of his pathetic joy as the
water hides itself into the ice.
I remember
I fed him that last evening but
who knew he would run
away on a secret way
from the sweet garden of paradise to the world of Pluto.
In the morning I did see the cat lying on the
comfortable bed of ruthless death.
I fetched milk to give him.
He drank unconsciously I suppose.
When I called a divine call, the cat left his last breath
Lifting his right leg as if he blessed me, that was
incredible but credible.
I paused for a while like a dead tree.
It seemed the air had lost its way, the sky had lost
its beauty,
the sun forgot to shine up, oh, how pathetic it was!
Today I can hear the sound of the spade and the ground
they made a little room together for our dear cat,
my father digged.
I made his bed under the ground with my own hands.
But I couldn't provide a single lamp
for his dark room.
He looked like Seamus Heaney's the Tollund man.
Often I dream our dear cat is alive and cheery, but
Oh, in reality he is no more.
Although he speaks a lot today
from a silent portrait hanging on the white wall.
Ah, my heart aches!
Image Copyright - Ujjal Mandal |
