To the photo frame

I’m one of those unlucky people on earth who couldn’t see the face of their grandmothers. I’ve never seen her, for she passed away just an year before my birth. I’ve just seen one photo frame with her photo and that’s all. This one’s for her, who’s always been on my side, like it feels to me.

All good’s coming to me, because of you Dadi!

 

In these four walls,

Where I’ve been breathing from years,

There hangs an old photo frame;

It’s of yours- like it’s been dispensed

Into the pair of my ears

And In those, I’m strained to believe.

For piteously I’ve no other sense

To rely on this apparent truth.

 

From there,

Quite times you might’ve seen,

The cadences of footsteps get feebler,

And in complete solitude,

I come to sit before you.

When I was younger, I expected conversations,

But now I’m a mere presenter of monologues,

Who just sits and empties himself of words,

Trying to steer clear of getting throttled.

 

Right next to all the frames of deities,

Of Durga, Saraswati, Lakshmi, and more,

There you sit in the photo, in a white cloth,

Distinctive from the entire luster around,

Your son, there, bows his head daily,

After bowing his head before all Gods,

For he knows, that in the end,

He’ll be looking at all of them altogether,

The whole supremacy of the universe.

 

I was doomed to not have slept in your laps,

How many times I’ve seen you yet

In the lean reflections dwelling in his eyes,

Clearer with a misty sheet over

Fabricated of few introverted tears.

He might be half you

And I might be half of him,

But who knows that the same half

Has been passing on?

 

And you’re residing in the half of me.

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