Here is a poem that I wrote after my father's death.
An Ancient Pain
Forty four years and nine months ago
In a dimly lighted room,
In a cosy little cottage in Bengal,
My father had put half of me into my mother’s womb.
Other half of mine was waiting within her ever since
She was a new-born.
Nine months later I landed on this earth’s bosom.
Since then forty three Novembers
Have come and gone.
My father has been there
Sharing with me the songs of rotating seasons.
Many fathers have died all through these years.
But fool was I to believe
that mine would always be there.
This is my first birthday
After my father’s death.
Now I know what my father must have felt,
On his first birthday
After his own father had drawn his last breath.