Shadows Of Past (Prose Poetry)

What happens when the doorbell rings; and you find standing outside the screen, an old man, frail and thin; you don't want to let him in. 

Why? Because you're ashamed of him in his torn dhoti. Ashamed to admit he's a poor farmer, who tilled the fields, lived off its yields. Somehow scraping a living, providing food on the table, for you to eat, himself going half filled. Squirreling away every paisa to pay for your school fees, so you would benefit, from an education he never received. 

You made it to the University, got a plum job in the city. A total makeover from the village belle; you strutted around as though born, bred in the city. A street smart guy you met along the way; got married; hiding your roots in deep cavities, presenting a fake outside, which unknowingly surfaced sometimes.  

Happy and contented with the present, mother of two grown children, you thought it inappropriate, to introduce him, their grandfather, a poor village bumpkin. In your plush home would be unfit. Kids made to believe grandparents were deceased. Till the day he turned up rocking your 'present'!

Seeing the unwelcome look on your face, he said

'Srimati don't be afraid, I haven't come to ask for an entrance. Your mother passed away, so I've just come to say, if you'd like, one last time to see her face, come to the village; before it turns too late; left to dip your fingers in her ashes'.

Dumbfounded you looked at him, a shadow of what once he had been; strong and rugged as a farmer should be. Dam of memories burst open, and through the sluice gates flowed past events. A childhood spent being loved and cared, toffees put on your plate when least expected. Groundnut chikkis made with loving hands, you polished off, without a thought of sparing some for your siblings. Were you not to the core, selfish?

Recognizing your intelligence, they never left a stone unturned. Took huge loans so you could learn, whilst siblings were left battling it on their own. The favored child you were, carrying a chip on your shoulder, endowed with more brains than others.

You looked straight into his eyes and said without any guilt 'you've come to the wrong address. Srimati is not my name. I lost my parents long ago, in a car accident. But may I offer you money to perform the last rites of Srimati's mummy'!

Tears welled up in his eyes. 'No,' he said, 'I haven't come to ask for alms. May God Bless you, your family for this kind offer'....saying he turned to take his departure.

You consoled yourself you'd done the best by not upsetting your newly built nest. Your Apple cart not upset! Afraid to burst the bubble. Out would spill your past. Afraid of rejection from your husband, you slammed the door on your father's face; broke his heart.

Now milady, you stay awake night after night, suffering the plight of ignominy, while safely ensconced in the wispy bubble you created; haunted with images of the thin and frail man, your father, you denied. Plagued with thoughts about how you would face the same denial when reaching gates of heaven