Papa

“Mama, when will Papa come?”
“He will come soon”, she says
and looks out of the window
of her father’s house to which
she has returned, a stranger.

“Does Papa love us?”
“Yes, he loves us a lot”, she says
glancing at the wedding band on her
middle finger
even gold pales with time.

“Will Papa send us money?”
“Yes, pots of it,” and she
pushes back the yellowing strap
peeping out of the neck of her
frayed silk blouse
silk shines but does not last.

“Will Papa bring me toys?”
“Yes, a boxful of them,” and
she looks at her brother’s son
playing with the toy train
forbidden to her daughter
toys are prone to break.

“When did Papa go?”
“Only two months ago.”
she is happy that her
daughter has not yet
learnt to count
it is difficult to count days.

“Why does auntie give apples to
Sonu and not me?”
“Your Papa will bring you apples”
and lies rest in the vermilion
mark on her forehead
Some marry only for a dot of lies.

“When will we have
Our own house?”
“Your Papa will come and take us to
Our own house,” she says and draws
a house on her daughter’s slate
it is easy enough to draw a house.

“What will you do when your Papa comes?”
The little girl looks up, surprised
since when did her mother learn
to ask questions?
and she answers slowly:
“Mama, Papa will not come.”


posted with permission from the poet NIRUPAMA DUTT from her book The Black Woman and Other Poems (Aesthetics Publications, Ludhiana, 2009: p 41-42)