Mustard Flowers

If you see an old man sitting alone

at the bus stop and wonder who he is

I can tell you.

He is my father.

He is not waiting for a bus or a friend

nor is he taking a brief rest before

resuming his walk.

He doesn’t intend to shop in the

nearby stores either

he is just sitting there on the bench.

Occasionally he smiles and talks.

No one listens.

No body is interested.

And he doesn’t seem to care

if someone listens or not.

A stream of cars, buses, and people

flows on the road.

A river of images, metaphors and

similes flows through his head.

When everything stops

at the traffic lights it is midnight

back in his village. Morning starts

when lights turn green.

When someone honks his neighbor’s

dog barks.

When a yellow car passes by

a thousand mustard flowers

bloom in his head.

A tall man passes with his shadow

vanishing behind him. My father

thinks of Pauli who left his village

for Malaya and

never came back. A smile appears

on his lips and disappears.

When nothing interesting seems to

happen he starts talking again:

where were you born, and where

have you come?

Shall you ever go back?

It is all destiny, yes a play of

destiny, you see.

He muses

and nods his head:

and where will you die my dear?

The thought of death is most

interesting and lingers on

He stops talking and thinks of the

Fraser Street chapel where he

has attended many funerals:

He thinks about the black

and red decorations and

imagines himself resting peacefully,

a line of people

passing by looking at him

for the last time.

His eyes are lit. Perhaps

this is the image he enjoys most

before it is demolished

with the rude arrival of a bus.

Passengers get down and

walk away briskly like ants.

The bus leaves.

He looks

at the traffic again to see

if a yellow car is passing by.

Ajmer Rode