Death of A Poet

Abstract

Today, as usual, I picked up the newspaper from the dinner table. My wife keeps it handy on it for me. She knows my habit of reading newspaper, while she’s working away in the kitchen attached to the dinner room, to prepare tea and breakfast for me and for herself. We talk about diverse things over tea and breakfast, at the table. Our son, our only child is studying away at an engineering college over in Kolkata. We keep this time reserved for a conjugal chat, for the rest of the day we remain busy. I in writing poetry and criticism and participating in literary activities and she with household work
While I was glancing through the newspaper, my ears attuned to the jingling of utensils moving about in the kitchen, my eyes was stuck by an obituary of Rebati Guha which said he died yesterday evening in a hospital. It flung me extremely surprised, for I had not expected his death so quick, though he had been admitted to the hospital a few days ago. I had meant to visit him at the hospital today. The newspaper had said his condition was not so serious that it would occasion his death so soon. Looking up from the newspaper, I shouted to my wife who was sieving tea into a cup, ‘Look, Sumita. Rebati Guha died yesterday evening.’ She received the news nonchalantly, as if she were habituated to hearing of deaths occurring everyday around her. I felt sort of disappointed; I had thought she would show interest and empathize. Many a time I had told her how much I adored him and how his poetry inspired mine. ‘Yesterday I heard of his death over TV.’ she said indifferently. She had already sieved the tea into two cups, ‘You didn’t tell me he died!’ I said, exasperated and offended ‘You know how I…’ She cut me short. “My ears have already go rotten, hearing your rigmarole,’ she said. She came over and placed on the table one of the two cups and a saucer containing two baked breads, one on the other and some curry on top and hers and sat across.