Mr. Jain's Tale Poem by Tushar Jain.

Mr. Jain's tale

the only thing that
upset Mr. Jain more than
the death of his dear wife
a day before, was when he
returned home from the
funeral to find her shadow
lingering near a cupboard
in the living room

startled, out of his mind
at first, two days past, he
grew to adjust to watching
the wraith move around the
place, get lost in dark rooms,
and against the pitch black
wall of the study, disappear

at noon, he'd find his
toast and hot tea at the
table, and at night, his pills
by the bedside, and up at six
in the morning, he'd be dragged
out of bed, and shoved out the
house, in mud-caked running
shoes, pajamas, and a
cotton headband

in the evenings,
when the floorboards
grew a frosty cold, he'd
find her waiting on the bed,
next to a bowl of wafers, corn
and nuts, and a sandalwood
chessboard set up on unwashed
sheets; and while, after all this
time, he found it impossible to
beat her still, her pieces now
were always black

months later, when
Mr. Jain, oranges, bananas,
and a watermelon in hand,
crossing a busy road, never
made it across, the shadow
waited on for days and days
by her window, and when
no one ever showed up,
returned, quietly, to
the cupboard