Bhopal - To a Father and His Child

On the bhopal gas tragedy

(inspired by a photograph of a man’s hand trying to brush away a fly that has settled on the face of his dead child while she is being buried.  this was published as the cover of India Today, in the issue covering the tragedy)

your child cannot feel anymore

that fly upon her eye

so fret not, dear father

don’t drive it away.

can’t you see her eyes are lifeless?

can’t you hear the rhythm of death

in her silent pulse?

weep not, oh father

she needs no longer

the solace of your tears.

the form buried

under the graves of progress

is your child no more.

just a corpse.

she has no name anymore.

just a number.

the newspaper headlines are her

epitaph.

over the years

lawyers will debate

judges pronounce

and chairmen air their opinions at cocktail parties.

they will not mention the name of the child

that only last night

played in your lap

climbed over you

and giggled

and gurgled

and filled your world with the music

of her laughter

and her tears.

they will not remember

how she ran from her mother’s arms

at the sound of your motor-cycle down the road

or that cuddly warmth

the joyful, all giving embrace

of those tiny arms

as you lifted her up

and held her, and loved her

and dreamt your dreams of her

and the years ahead –

from toddler

to schoolgirl

to bride

to wife

to mother

to daughter forever

at your bedside.

in the darkness of her cradle

her toys lie untouched

unloved

with the mark of her grubby fingers

still on them

twisting your heart into a rock of numbness

a pain

that will never fade

never go away.

still

weep not, dear father

the world goes laughing by

and shouting and screaming

and clanging by.

the machinery has been overhauled

the motors hum –

mankind advances

to TV sets and VCRs

and super pesticides.

your daughter was just

another pest

in the path of progress.

walk away now, father.

her body is covered with earth.

let it shroud her face too.

walk away without memories

without pain

numbers can be reproduced

any computer will tell you that.

when tomorrow dawns

and you do not hear her stir

and cry for her milk

when you see her empty bed

when you feel your vacant arms

when you hear your empty heartbeats

you will know

that your daughter 
is dead.

never mind, though.

Bhopal

will live on

forever . . . . .

................................................................. paul mathew