The colour of my father’s death is yellow.
Old age, blindness, heart-fail, or pain —
What was it that took my father away?
I do not know; I do not wish to know.
But he had chosen to move on,
To a place of eternal peace —
And though grievous loss be mine,
I had to bid him goodbye.
I know he was happy that I had come
To see him off —
I felt that in his light-drained, cataracted, blinded eyes
Which were now completely shut to the world,
And in the mystical smile which played upon his lifeless lips
Through which endearing words would pass no more.
He was gone, they were going to take him away,
And there was nothing I could do
Except the final rites a daughter had to do for her father.
My duties accomplished, I stood by the gate,
My heart heavy, looking ahead,
Not wanting to see him being carried out.
But as he passed by me, he dropped something for me
At my feet—
A big, fresh, yellow flower—
The luminous yellow of sunshine and sunflowers,
The healthy hue of happiness and hope,
The golden glory of topaz,
The effervescence of the Manipura:
The fire energy which transforms,
The auspiciousness of turmeric,
The light of Brihaspathi,
The clarity of vision,
The wisdom of Dakshinamoorthy,
The blessing of the Guru Tatwa.
It was as if he was telling me,
“I can see now, Vidya!”
I picked up the flower, held on to the strength
It radiated, while I said my goodbye.
They took him away soon after,
And my legs gave way in prostration.
Later, I laid the flower to rest too —
It would, like him, like all of us, wither,
And I didn’t want to see it dry and die;
But not before I had absorbed its energy
Into my heart,
To immortalise his memory through my art.
My father’s soul is a mandala now —
A yellow petalled lotus
At the Divine Feet
Of the Universal Mother
Unto whom all must eventually merge.