Hemashri’s prose poems, a tribute exclusively for Different Truths, recurring the red motif, highlight a father’s influence, independence, intellectual curiosity, and style lessons, emphasising the power of simple objects in life.
A Lingering Fragrance of My Father!
#1: A red bicycle
Deuta bought a red bicycle for our brother, who used to move around riding it. I was scared of falling, so I did not dare to try. Deuta encouraged me to learn riding, assuring to hold me from behind. So I mustered up the courage to ride with the confidence that he was holding me from the back. One day I just looked back and saw he was watching me but not holding from behind. That very moment I realised I learned to ride a bicycle. He was my biggest supporter, my mentor, and my most ardent admirer.
In my life, his role was exactly that I felt confident that my father was watching me from behind and would never let me fall…
I hope you are watching over from heaven for me to keep riding on…
#2: A red book
I used to argue a lot with my Deuta. He compared me with the village schoolmaster in the poem of Oliver Goldsmith—one who never accepts defeat.
He wanted me to study science and then medicine, whereas I did not want to do all these. I used to quote him from the poem Children by Khalil Gibran. “Your children are not your children; they come through you but not from you.” He would ask who this Khalil was. I was sure he hated Khalil for writing the poem, Children.
One day he came with this fat red book, The Complete Works of Khalil Gibran. I preserved this book.
Maa and Deuta used to buy us very precious books.
When I was in Class VI, Deuta gave me a copy of a magazine, Competition Success Review. I read an interview of a lady IAS officer, which inspired me to study economics and appear for a competitive examination.
When it comes to the role of public servant, Deuta made me aware that most people do just a job, but some people serve others.
#3: A red shirt
My stylish father used to wear only white and beige-coloured shirts. Once I bought this red shirt from Cooch Behar, and he did not seem to approve it. One day I was down with viral fever, and suddenly Deuta turned up wearing the red shirt with a red tie. Whenever I go home after a call, he would dress up to receive me. He did not like shabby people, and this I inherited from him.
He was fond of wearing good clothes and carried them very well. Born and brought up in a village, my father had such an impeccable taste for good things in life—whether clothes, books, poetry, or music.
Note: Deuta is father in Assamese.
Photos by the poet
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