Violet Poem by Makarand Paranjape

She sat in her glass office
like a little bird in a cage,
slight and wispy haired.
I was a flustered foreigner
looking for a place to stay:
'You'll like it,' she volunteered,
'the food, for one, is excellent.
I can vouch for it because
I eat breakfast and lunch here.'
She looked at me kindly
and stubbed her cigarette.

Every morning on my way to breakfast,
I would pause by her office and say,
''Morning Violet,' to which she replied,
'Well, good morning. How are you today?'
Then we would make small talk
usually discussing the weather
or her health. Before leaving
I would say, 'Have a good day, Violet,'
in the newly acquired American way.

So a semester passed.
Having other friends now,
I discontinued my daily courtesy.
Once, seeing me slink past her office,
she called, and began talking excitedly
before noticing that I wasn't
particularly interested.
Then, to my tongue-tied shame
came the moment of recognition
when she perceived my indifference.
I clumsily wished her good day
but could not escape the hurt
slowly creeping into her eyes.

Having resolved never to slight her again thereafter
I again began to greet Violet faithfully every day.
On Fridays we would wish each other a good weekend,
resuming our conversations, on Mondays.
In this manner, snow-fall succeeded leaf-fall.
As the weather worsened
Violet coughed badly
complaining more than usual about her health.
I tried to coax her into quitting smoking,
but though she refrained in my presence,
the full ashtray always gave her away.

At the end of the spring semester
I moved into my own apartment.
Our parting was brief and hurried.
A few days later I saw her at the street corner,
for the first time outside her office.
She wore a blue coat, with a chiffon scarf
primly tied under her chin.
I had never realized how frail she was.
Her back was turned to me
and I was heading in another direction,
so I left her waiting there,
without exchanging a word.

Two weeks later
I was standing by Violet's glass window
anticipating the pleasure of meeting her.
Her chair was empty
as if she had stepped out for a minute:
(I half looked for the
'Will be back in five minutes' sign.)
The door opened.
An unfamiliar face advanced:
'May I help you?'
A bit unsettled, I blurted:
'Where's Violet?'

She had no family, few friends,
very little money. She lived alone;
wanted to die before becoming helpless.
Her church had started a collection
to pay for the funeral:
did I wish to contribute?

I cared for the living,
but felt no pangs for the dead.
Violet died of lung cancer.
So sudden her departure-
I was vaguely betrayed.
'She didn't tell me,' I thought,
'she went away without letting me wish her good day.'

[From The Used Book]