Broken pieces of earthen ware pot
Lying scattered all around
Scary foot prints of those visited there.
Crushed jasmine flowers,
Puffed rice taking a beeline in the mouth of red ants,
Charred remains of fire wood,
Still spreads slender smoke.
Burned out incense buds
Half burned red silk still glares.
The plantain trunk planted still nods.
Fresh earth still wet, yet to dry.
The smell of earth hangs around,
Mingled with the sandal wood smoke
The air still caries the smell of incense.
Smell of death
Blades of camphor smoke hang on the leaves.
There is a grey shade screening around.
The sorrow waves of a shrill cry still moves in the air.
The fresh sprouts of seeds rise above.
His voice echoes all around.
His thick framed spectacles lie unattended.
His half read book.
His diary was not opened, the day he fell sick.
His last entry reads-
Termites are slowly consuming my lungs?
Slowly he will retreat to memories.
In to the Obituary columns every year
Then in to family history,
In to oblivion.