Beyond The Circle Poem by Bishnupada Sethi

Whenever he fell ill
I trembled to see him buried in blankets,
a prayer rising unbidden to my lips
as I pedaled hard to the village quack—
for he was our entire world;
without him, we were nothing.

He labored on,
heedless of the sky's temper:
blazing sun, lashing rain,
biting winter, treacherous dew—
none of it slowed him.
We leaned on him
against the sharp teeth of hunger and pain.

As I grew,
I stayed lashed to his side,
watching, guarding,
refusing to let chance slip through.
The old dread kept my nerves strung tight.

He would smile and say:
"No matter how a man strains or dreams,
things follow their hidden course.
Yet one must still act
when time sounds its call."

In the hospital ward
I saw a faint stirring beneath the sheet.
No words came;
an oxygen mask sealed his mouth.
Through the tangle of tubes and wires
his hands moved—
not reaching for me,
only folding together
in silent prayer.

I heard again his quiet refrain:
"Not even a leaf turns
without the Lord of all things willing it.
My reach ends where the circle closes;
beyond that line, I have no voice."