Through 14 chilly Himalayan nights, warmed by wood fired by cowdung embers,
A loving son his departed father fondly and with sorrow remembers.

A scholar, a saint and mentor to him was he, to the end his mathematics strong.
Despite what others did to him he could do no one any wrong.

A student of the great Physicist Krishnan at Allahabad was he and became a forester by trade,
Reared in penury, he did not much to let that weakening spirit fade.

For him some sloth, fear and resignation was a more comfortable life,
From a well to do doctor’s progeny ,was my good mother,
an educated lady not adept at housekeeping,
his for 50 years a very good wife.

Misery and pain I want to forget and forgive,
I want to offer all offenders an olive.
This is so because most of our life was so grand,
Full of learning, a regal childhood and through our teachers and parents
all of us 3 brothers and 1 sister on our feet comfortably and proudly stand.

Memories thus I pull out, of colonial hearths and mantles,
Of sloping roofs, outdoor kitchens, jungles,
mountains,servants, bungalows, jeeps, a 1949 Ford Deluxe,
of pebble strewn roads, wooden bridges, mahauts, streams
and fine old crockery fed with water boiled in wood fired soot covered kettles.

This epitaph which I have today begun
will by the grace of the Lord one day in many chapters end.
If for nothing else my Baba’s memory will all to knowledge and goodness bend.