The poet's daughter

I was not walking briskly like the other fellow walkers in the park. Instead I
was walking in a meditative mood.
"Sir, may I have a word
with you?"
Came a feminine
voice behind me.
I stopped for a while and
looked back. A
youngish face, with
a fat body, a woman
perhaps in
her forties, looked at me
to talk.
"Sorry to disturb you,"
she said.
"It's all right," I responded.
"perhaps you have
forgotten by
now you had come to
see my
father some years ago."
"What's his name?"
"He is Jivananda, the poet."
"Oh yes, I knew him. He is
dead and gone now,
isn't he?"
"Yes sir, 30 years have
gone by.
And the 31st
anniversary falls
next week."
"Oh what a good poet
he was.
I knew him more as a
poet than as
a friend.'

"Yes once you came to
see him
with another friend, I think,
a journalist."
"That's correct."
While walking again,
with her by
my side, I went down the
memory lane.
"I am Gothami, his eldest
daughter," she said.
"And I humbly need a favour,
sir," she added.
"What's it?"
"Can you kindly write
something about him and his
poetry?"
"But Gothami, I am not
sure if
I have any material like
his bio data
and his poetic works.
Have you
got anything?"
"Not too sure, sir."
"Then how can I write an
article without any facts?"
"I think I can manage to get
some moth-eaten pages
of his
published poetry."
"Why moth-eaten?"
"My father didn't have time to
attend to his own books.
He just
laid them aside. But after his
death, we discovered
that most
of his books were
moth-eaten.
We felt so sorry to
discover all this.
Yes, we are responsible too."
Gothami was feeling sorry
about their own folly.
"So give me whatever you
have
got. I like him as a poet."
Gothami was thoughtful and
was silently walking.
Then she said.
"I think my father has some
poetry manuscripts
left somewhere."
"I remember he was a
contributor
to a Sunday paper. Don't you
have the cuttings?"
"Not sure. I think my elder
brother must have a few
of them."
"Bring them soon please."
"But sir, don't haven't you got
anything with you?"
"Sorry, Gothami, but
I haven't
got anything."
"At least in your
university library?"
"I don't go there any more."
"Oh sir, so what should I
do now?"
"Don't worry. Collect
whatever
you have got, and
bring them
to me."
Once again a silence
ensued. Gothami
spoke again.
"When do you hope
to come
here next?"
"Perhaps tomorrow. Are you
coming?"
"I think I can."
"Do you write poetry
too, Gothami?"
She smiled.
"Not the type of poetry he
wrote, sir."
"Then what's your type?"
"I write blank verses
occasionally."
"So, that's something
at least
you have inherited
something from
your father."
"Oh no, I don't think so.
I am a
failure in my
creative works."
"Why do you say so?"
"I failed to continue my
higher
studies."
"Are you married?"
"My husband died six
years ago."
"Why, what happened
to him?"
"Too much alcohol and
negligence."
"Oh my god!"
"But I want to look after my
only daughter."
I looked at my wristwatch.
"I have walked too
much today,"
I told Gothami.
"So are you coming
tomorrow sir?'
"Yes Gothami," I said
thoughtfully, "I'll try to
come early."