At the Banks of Vaitarani
Death waits solemnly,
Preparing to take Mother away —
But the hour has not yet come;
The clock’s hands turn,
Circling in mute anxiety.
Before her head, the basil plant stands,
Beside it, the parani beads;
Little Aunt murmurs the Krishna mantra,
And a few drops of Ganges water
Moisten Mother’s lips.
Mother never wished to leave home —
However small, this household was her vast world.
She stored her sorrows deep within,
Like a pond brimming with still water
Beneath a smiling surface.
The home, once lively, has aged —
Its laughter and walls
Both crumbling like old plaster.
Outside, night descends
On the relief camp at the Raja’s estate.
Pānigobra village still burns,
And distant Gulshan and Kishoreganj
Lie shattered in the news.
In that news burns Mother’s pyre —
Grief itself aflame.
Has she reached Father by now?
Or is she still waiting
At the banks of the Vaitarani,
The river of passage,
For her final crossing?
