Surcharge
Sunayna Pal
About the Author:
Sunayna Pal’s poetry graces the pages of numerous international journals, anthologies, museums, poetry festivals, textbooks, and libraries, resonating with readers around the world. Her debut book, Refugees in Their Own Country (B&W Fountain), narrates the Partition of India through verse and illustrations. Her second book, Please Go to the Park (Bottlecap Press), invites readers to embark on a journey of self-discovery. As the Director of The Poetry Academy, Sunayna nurtures a deep appreciation for poetry in others. She is also dedicated to the practice of Heartfulness meditation. She lives in Maryland with her family. For deeper insight into her work and journey, please visit sunaynapal.com.
Cover by: Allief Vinicius
X: @seteph
Surcharge
When I was six, I learned Dad’s naps were sacred. The house grew still, curtains drawn, our footsteps careful, as he drifted into fragile emptiness of peace. At twenty-four, I tried to implement it. A few days after his cancer surgery, he took his medicine and lay down to rest. His face, once familiar, now seemed like a stranger’s. Thinner, drained of color, the weight of illness carved into his cheeks. The house was heavy with silence, when a loud knock shattered it. I rushed to the door, heart racing, only to find a burly postman pounding on the neighbor’s door. Annoyed, I scolded him, lowering my voice so it wouldn’t carry. That evening, when Dad returned from his walk, he scolded me. Not for raising my voice, but for provoking the corrupt postman. He could cause trouble. A month later, dad’s prediction came true. An important bank document went missing. Dad’s face flushed with quiet rage. Old strength flickering beneath frailty. He had to go till the post office, apologize, and slip the postman a bribe just to retrieve what should’ve been ours without question.
Silence hides many truths
Not every wrong deserves a right
Some things remain unsaid