MALINI

I

Malini, I am so sorry.
I didn't know you were dying.

When the news of your death reached me,
grief throttled me.

My body rattled,
my chest pounded.
My voice quivered,
my hands trembled.

I didn't know what to do.

I was stunned
by this unknown grief.
I only wished
I had been there for you.

That burden of guilt
was too much for you to bear.

I remember you telling me that one line:

“Never ever leave your children behind.”

I asked you,
“Why don't you work?”

Your reply:

“Will I then be free
to go to my children
whenever they want?”

No matter what people may say,
I understood your pain right away.

Malini, I am so sorry.
I wasn't there
when you were dying.

---

II

Your chiseled face still shines bright.

Your throaty voice,
your rolling laughter,
your twinkling eyes—
I still see and hear them within me.

No, I do not remember that bloated you,
lying lifeless, cold, and gone.

You were brought back
to that home
That you had once dreamt of.

Your lifeless body
came out of the box
and was laid out
where you truly belonged—

where you had once come as a bride,
young and bright.

Your first husband's home.

Your two ex-husbands looked on
as your sons dressed you like a bride.

Look at the irony of it all.

You went in full regalia like a queen—
with sindoor, red flowers,
and draped in a red Benarasi.

You looked the royal
you had always wanted to be.

Your sons made sure
to send you off
with love.

I touched you
and kissed you one last time.

The four men you loved—
your two ex-husbands
and your two sons—

stood lost,
forever entwined
in your love.

If only you had not loved so fiercely,
they might have been free.

---

III

Malini, I still don't understand
why your memory
fills me with grief.

I know you destroyed yourself,
drinking yourself to death,
scarring people forever.

Your children need your bosom to rest on,
your hands to caress them
as they grapple with their losses.

Losing their father 
two years after you were gone.

You told me
never to leave my children behind—

but you did just that.

Your vulnerability and pride
were mismatched.

Your love misunderstood,
your pride scoffed at.

You were displaced
from where you were meant to be.

You were held together
by your children
with a fragile string.

But that string was pulled
as they grew—

stretching longer,
growing thinner,
pushing you farther 
making you lonelier.

Married and divorced twice,
caught within the web
of the same family,

I know it was not easy.

If only you had learned
to be a woman first
before being a mother and a wife.

You broke.
You fell.
You hurt.

You only wanted
to be dead.

And one day death came,
took you  away

helped along
by the bottle
you had embraced.

Your seeds scattered

Blown away by pain.

Malini,
I am sorry.

I didn't know you were dying.

I would have met you once,
held your hands,
kissed your forehead,
and said goodbye.

Malini, I am so sorry.
I didn't know you were dying.