The Dead Poet’s Letter
Dear Suku,
It’s been two months since I last breathed. The pain was unbearable as I took my last breath. My body was already half numb. I could not feel my legs, and my eyes could not see. Everything was blurry. My head felt heavy, and I couldn’t move any of my muscles. I still tried to utter some words, but it would not come out. They may claim my death was due to health problems. Suku, don’t believe them — I had a fall from the crane. They did not give us any safety harnesses, ropes, or helmets.
I was dying. Amidst the chaos, my fellow workers were in a panic, moving around, calling, and shouting, but I couldn’t hear a thing. The only thing I could hear was Samir.
“Dad, next time you come, bring a mobile for me as well. Promise!”
“Promise me you will complete all your homework before playing football with your friends.”
“Promise Dad, but you will bring me a mobile, all right.”
“You will be a good boy. Help your mom, look after your grandma and grandpa.”
“Always Dad. But this time please return soon Dad.”
“Please return soon, Dad”. This echoed throughout me, Suku.
I promised Samir to return soon 1.5 years ago, but I could not. I will not return to see him, to give him what he wanted. I miss home Suku. I miss you. I miss Samir and my parents. I don’t know how will they cope with this. The only time it felt that they could take a rest and I could finally see a smile on their face, all of it disappeared in the desert storm. It was always hard for us. Poverty clinched us ever since I could know.
Things were difficult, but you came along, and it felt good, even the sadness. I finally had someone to share my joy and my sorrows, someone with whom I could navigate the maze of life and be sure that you would always be by my side. It’s all gone now. Maybe I should have listened to you, not wanting me to change companies. Maybe I should not have left the fisheries, but who loves the smell of dead fish?
“Your salary won’t matter, I am fine with this as well.”
“No, Sukmaya. I will earn around 15,000 more there in Doha.”
“But, the work will also be difficult, no? The fishery is better than those stadiums, that scorching heat, carrying heavy equipment. Do you think that is easier than catching fish?”
“At least it’s better than the smell of those slimy fish. My nose feels rotten every time I go there.”
Now I feel like one of those fish that I caught in the fisheries. I was in my home, my ocean, like the millions of fish in the ocean, but when I saw food, I swam to get it, but fate had me caught in the net, and while other fish looked on, they pulled me into the air. I flapped around, struggling to breathe, wanting to go back to my home, my ocean, with my fishes waiting for me but finally succumbed to my destiny.
Please take care of Samir. I know you are the strongest woman I have ever known in my life. I know I will never be there beside you raising our children, but I know you will raise him well. I don’t want him to be that fish that I was. I want him to be a bird, who flies high in the sky. Make him a bird, who can fly anywhere he wants, fly high above in the sky, and have no restrictions. Make him a bird who knows all of the sky he can see and fly is his home.
Someday, Suku
When you all fly
High above in the sky,
Fly above the clouds.
I will be nested here,
My new abode.
A fish of the sea,
Lives in the sky above.
-Your loving dead poet.
(His body arrived in a coffin 2 weeks later. Sukmaya (Suku) could not control herself and cried her tears out. Samir was silent. The clouds cast a somber shadow over the village. The dead poet’s letter was never read, and his poems were never sung. The dead poet was forgotten, his poems withered with the wind of time.
There are thousands of dead poets whose poems never made it to the people and their songs never sung. These poets get lost in numbers. Their death becomes mere numbers, a statistics figure. They become just another fish in the ocean.)
