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.
is dead.
never
mind, though.
Bhopal
will
live on
forever
. . . . .
.................................................................
paul mathew
.JPG)