Dying in the digital age

Nobody switched off their phones for your funeral –

the mobile was new, like the century,

with none of that decrepit etiquette –

so the calls came in

from the office chaprassi, the son-in-law's masi –

around you – brave you,

last of your siblings to take your place

between blocks of ice and a thousand marigolds –

you who went to school on a bullock cart –

who taught your daughter to swear at any

English man or woman who dared to walk

across her path in your motherland –

stalwart of a century grown old,

with so much more to teach the world.

Did they even know this, those guests? That cousin-brother's

best friend's mother who came

to pay her respects – who glanced at the careering clock,

then blankly back at the starched white sari

that burned with you and your stories –

on that humid day in Delhi,

the air thick with incense –

with Vedic shlokas and Nokia ringtones,

and the sound of a passing rickshaw-wallah playing

Where's the Party Tonight?