Recently, in class we celebrated the day of the dead. We set up an altar in the front of the class. Each of us bringing an artifact or a picture, something belonging to someone who has passed on, or even parts of us which we have outgrown and said farewell to. It was unbelievably moving hearing about things and people long gone. Memories of them which still resonate so palpably that in that classroom of ours with the white fluorescent lamps doing their nano-second flickers I felt the presence of memories of these people I have never met, so strong it was like the silent vibration on a violin string long after the note has ceased. It cannot be heard or seen, touched or smelt. It can only be felt and therein lies its magic.

Maybe, once upon a time I have wondered about where dead people go. Is there an afterlife? Do ghost and spirits exist? Do souls depart into paradise or hell, to another lifetime on a reaincarnation wheel? Does it matter so much, if we do not live our lives fully? The best and worst of men and women who have ever lived still leaves imprints on us when they die. Their lives and their deaths are still celebrated, even if they have not been perfect, merely human. No they may not have been famous, only someone in your family who spent the last days on a lonely bunk bed looking out of the window at the dark corridor outside, smoking miserable cigarettes, perhaps contemplating his coming death, perhaps carrying the guilt of a lifetime. Perhaps feeling that it might be too late asking to be forgiven. Perhaps trying to live out his remaining days with whatever dignity he could muster. But whatever it is, he is remembered.

In the class, I read a poem I wrote. Here it is:



For My Grandfather

To that man
Who was always too quiet
Gazing on family parties
From the sides
A silence so palpable
That as I child
I had felt it whenever I got close.

To the man
Who voice
Was thin and raspy
Like his presence
So easily forgotten
Like something transparent
Perhaps a ghost

To the man
Who was never loud
Looking for his photo
I could only find a few candid shots
With him lurking in the background
Always with him looking away
So distant
Like the man I could and would
Never know
He lived always on the sideline
A mute spectator

To the man
I heard so much about
His gambling
Being a bad father
A bad husband
So different from the man I know
Just a gentle presence
So guilt ridden
I heard he kept my cousin’s medals
Beside his packets of cigarettes under his mattress
On the double bunk bed
Where he slept on top
Through the windows
I have always peeked at the darkness outside

Grandfather, I wonder if death is as dark on the other side
Is it as silent and distant as you?
Does it always evade photographs
Looking away?
Did you finally get your redemption
And forgiveness
I have so much wanted to tell you
You already had
Even as a child
Even as a child.