His face had the sinking furrows of scores of
memories; like a traveller
too tired to look back; the pillow
embalmed his wispy back, eye pitched
on a paper or magazine; his chores were
well-set, like a software package;
only a few bugs appeared in between,
unshapely arguments with his better-half;
And my mother would moan the fatal tie-up
thrust on her at 15; a moan aka my
father’s morn sojourn with the gods.

In an instant they patched up,
for yet another round of truce;
most tired couples of yesteryears do.

Born in turbulent times,
(Is the world ever free of it?)
his youth was cast in khadi;
That serene, dreamy walk in spotless
white, rivaled the sun’s rays in
Tirunelveli; his eyes bore the passion
of the day, ears brimmed with sublime
thoughts, mind resonant with music.

Like many, he groped his way thru’
pile of govt.records; by dusk, found
his peace in the quiescent strains of
Gandhi’s ashram; the day when Mahatma
was felled, is still a graphic picture
in him; His legacy caught dust in the
attic while he was tethered to a growing family.

A doting, not a frowning dad, and
yet a fusspot; He was rid of burdens
long before some get to shoulder ’em;
Had his shocks too, which made furrows
on his face earlier than usual;
Never looked back; Don’t the days seem
longer in memory than when lived?

Time spends itself; for him now
the small screen and elastic serials
are part of a sumptuous siesta;

Not a care in his head? I wish so.
Somewhere in the recesses lies an
undetected regret – like dandruff or
unerased coat of dirt in the ceiling.