Chitrakala: A Poem
Poem by Saachi Gupta || Introduction by Levii Wishart || Illustration by Seoyoung Park
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Saachi Gupta lost her grandfather to COVID-19.
In Mumbai, India, where she lives, there was no chance to mourn or grieve him due to the early stages of the pandemic unfolding, as well as a family full of positive diagnoses. She describes it as a “nightmare come true.”
“My family and I now finally have the chance to process that my grandfather is gone, and it is harder than expected. There are days like today, when all I want to do is cry, but we move forward in the hopes that it will get better.”
The hindi word ‘Chitrakala’ translates to ‘portraiture.’ It was the name of Saachi’s grandfather’s printing company, a word she always thought was beautiful.
“Since the poem is a reminiscence of my grandfather's life, I think it's very appropriate for it to be full of colours. This poem is a part of my grieving process, a way to remember my grandfather for everything he was.”
This morning, it looked like it was going to rain
The grey sky clouded over, the sound of pit-pat already in my head
When I looked out of the dirty window
And missed you a little more.
There are versions of you in my head:
There is that one version on the phone,
That wishes me me luck, even as it hurts you to speak
The one that thought you were a liability.
There is another, standing on the roof,
Watering the rose bush,
And then there is the one at the train station, when I rushed to you,
And in the midst of all the chaos, you smiled.
You saw it rain for ninety years
Heard the patter of it in crowded markets
And the streets that still smell like cinnamon and turmeric.
Maybe you ran for cover into an open shop,
Maybe you grinned, and jumped into puddles
I wish I knew how you felt about the rain.
There is a version of you,
That is young and invincible,
With the world in the palm of his hand.
And then there is another, that is a photographer,
And one more, that sits in his office all day,
And always comes home, tired and late.
There is the version that spends all evening cooking dinner,
And smiles with contentment
At the faces enjoying it.
And I want you to know
That the ones you loved the most,
Are still happy when they're not fighting,
In those rare instances where everything
Suddenly feels okay again.
And the rain, all the ninety years of it that you saw
Don't feel like enough
In the first year of rain that's not yours.
There is one version of you, lying in your bed
Thinner and frailer, with my palm on your head
And I remember thinking that the warmth of your body,
The small smile on your face when I asked you how you feel
Meant so much to me
That it hurt to think what I'd do
When it wasn't here anymore.
Maybe you didn't see ninety years of rain–
There was that one time, three years ago,
When it didn't rain at all.
There is a version of you
That loves animals and the rabbits in the backyard,
And there is another–
Far too gone already,
Because you married the love of your life,
And nothing else seems to matter.
There is a version of you in my head
That is stubborn, and unyielding,
One whose legs are hurting in the hospital bed
There is a version of you that is alone
Lacking oxygen, as you take your last breaths.
And I'm sorry I could cry only once
And then once more, again, a month later
And I'm sorry that your room that meant so much to me
Still means everything, without you in it.
But the rain is coming now, and I hope you understand
That I don't know rain or the sun or cloudy skies without you,
And I'm terrified that the first rainfall will wash away
Every version of you that lives in my head.
