Poetry

My Father in a Self-portrait

by Ranjiet

On a January wintry night, 
ankle-deep in muddy water,
skin thrashed by coldness,
a body shivers to the feet,
          breathing, quick and shaky,
          intermittent gnashing,
my father waters mustard flowers 
in a distant foggy field.

The mustard branches,
heavy with misty leaves,
bend and make a hook to 
seize you in its chill,
shivering is your only company. 

In his damask coat's rough fold 
he struggles with his shovel,
          swash of mud on his face 
mocking his every attempt.

In his ghostly appearance, 
first human
digging in freezing mud
                    for survival, 
my ancestors with shovels 
cut water
                    into pieces,
and harvest grain
          for future mouths.

Standing on
          a wet edge, 
afraid of ghosts,
I ask him irrelevant questions.
Most of his answers are
                    unheard, 
but in his watery voice, 
I console myself of
               a companion.
His distant stammering utterance
is my only childhood memory. 
The smell of mustard oil
          in your kitchen
takes me back to those fields
and I
run after my father.

Appeared in Issue Spring '23