Half sat, mostly sprawled

across the big white bed in

room 3042, of a grand hotel

in Bangalore. My mobile rings.

I know before answering it’s

one of those calls that defines

life into ‘before’ and ‘after’,

so hesitate as long as

possible in ‘before’. 

“Dad passed away in the night.”

I don’t believe it, tears come but

I don’t believe it and sit, stand, sit,

pace around, shaking my head.

I don’t know what to do.

I don’t know what to do.

Stupid thoughts: must cancel the

newspapers, inform the landlord,  

hair appointment at 4 o’clock.

I hear a strange sound,

a sort of ascending groan.

It’s coming from me.

There’s a single yellow rose

in a vase on the desk.