Did my Grandmother die on a Women's day?
It was not the women's day.
Some day in rainy tropical July,
Gloomy, when Calcutta is always wet and clay.
My maternal grandmother lay, with beads of sweat
Dripping down her withered frail grey.
She asked for a cup of tea,
Before she could take a few sips,
Her weak heart was running like a Ferrari
Mother rushed to call her father, who also was a doctor,
While I checked her pulse and each beat was a quadruple
Grandpa took a look, in other words but clearly told grand am
Darling its time to go, escape velocity awaits next door.
Hypoxia bit into her like a cobra's venom
Eyes wide open, dry and dead, devoid of any vision
He shouted at the top of his voice, what for I still cannot clear
Dhanvidya Are you there?
The dead eyes, did not move, the face was paralysed
The brain was almost dead and shut,
But a final burst of last effort, her face shone, her eyes slightly widened
And then she sank into her corpse finally tired.
Did she respond because her dying brain obeyed?
Or did she respond because her leaving soul caressed?
But who cares it was not a women's day,
Some day in rainy Tropical July,
Gloomy when Calcutta is always wet and clay.
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