Am I the Assassin Or the Undertaker

Am I the Assassin or the Undertaker For Palani I He stopped coming our way again He was no where in sight at school Then, after a long absence In the pit of the Chan Ah Tong padang He came and stood at one corner of the field He looked resigned grave A stoic smile hovering over his lips Over his virgin gossamer moustache His voice a calm breeze Of vowels constrained by crisp consonants We saw less of his teeth He was dressed in silk shirts Well-ironed without creases Trouser pleats showing strictness Shoes shiny and sleek The sheen of his hair obedient under cream His gait measured strained As though grim hands clawed at him Through gaps in the ground At first, we didn’t know What to make of him His new tutored appearance And detached forbearing looks He watched us play Close on hours Aloof far away He never so much as waved We turned to look He was gone Leaving the dusk to fall behind him I called to see anyway at his place His father frowned at me Gruff undertones accompanied him inside I saw a curtain ever so slightly tremble After a while his mother Came out to say He had gone for good I wasn’t sure what she meant I stood there looking dazed Then tears licked her cheeks Her drained and stricken face She went in dabbing her eyes With the loose end of her sari I never called on them again I just couldn’t understand The father’s anger and pain At this world on which we stand I was just a playing pal of his son’s He was older than I was then Yet he came just once Out of who knows what inner command Just to talk or stroll around Now I am older and his elder But is it I who laid him low II A date with fate He came one morning to my place All decked in his glad rags Fingering a shiny white billiard ball Twirling it between bony fingers Like the natural leg-spinner he was Just for fun he would let it lick the dust And it swished near ninety-degree turns I said: What about some quick nets The day aged in labour and with forceps He hesitated but on the spur Said: Yes, why not The rest of the morning I batted Saw the wickets tumble uprooted His spirits surged Sweat sweet and sour Sprinkled his shirt And ran down his collar and spine We laughed at every googly Which missed the wickets by inches We were back in olden Ali Baba times Truants lost in a cave of our own Diamonds refracted from his eyes He said: We should do this more often His heart must have caved in that very night Or was it when he barely made it home © T. Wignesan – Paris, February 3-4, 2013