Skip to main content

On Father's Day



Five years and a month back
I lived,
In and out of love,
Love,
Which much to my chagrin
Would not spread 
Over my head in a continuum.
I was needed
But not so much,
I was loved
But never so much.

The longing
Shadowed the moons
Of brightest nights
And the clouds
Hung heavy in the cleanest skies.

The journey of centuries
Which traversed,
Across several births
Gasped and limped,
With broken breath
And battered soul.

And then
     Five years and a month back
A head with scant hairs
Looked at me
With barely open 
Blue eyes.
I dropped
A finger towards you
And your soft, pink, palm
Cuddled over it,
Securing it 
As a comforting coast 
Does to the anchor 
Of a tired ship.

We went on walks
While you 
Smiled and stared back
Like a little Buddha,
In the small bed of yours;
Set in the stroller,
You saw the ducks
For the first time,
And with you
I evidenced life for the first time,
Drunk in our firsts, 
We smiled as friends.

You would walk
Holding my hands
With uncertain steps
Joining the larger humanity
As a new entrant
Breaking off from 
The fraternity of toyhood 
              To which
 you seemed to belong.


As the novelty of walks waned
You would hang by my being
Begging to be picked
And once picked

 Would beg to sit on the shoulder.
Over the years
A certain deftness and dexterity 
You have earned
As you would swiftly 
Climb through the lap to the  
Shoulder,
No longer needing to 
Balance yourself by pulling on my hair.

I remember that pulling of my hairs, 
Which you no longer need
To resort to,
And dread the day
When I won't 
Even have your weight on my shoulders 
As you will grow
Too big 
And I will grow too feeble
And as the circle completes
We will go back to our first connect
When those tiny, pink palms
Cuddled my finger,
And like a weary voyager
I will rest my heavy head
In your lap,
And close my eyes
Watching 
You someday holding
Your finger
To another pink, little palm.


       - (c) Saket, 16th of June, 2013

 

3 comments

Popular posts from this blog

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man- James Joyce- Book Review

Amazon Link 
Some books are an act of education; they cannot be read in haste, cannot be understood in one read. James Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man gives one such feeling.
It is a coming of age story of Stephen Dedalus. Nothing extraordinary about that. But then there a rich, slowly flowing lost river of philosophy which moves beneath the surface, turning an ordinary story of a boy growing up, encountering questions about faith, religion and sex, into an exceptional, extraordinary and engaging story. The story moves along the timeline, much in the manner of Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse, where the writer is seemingly a passive narrator. Further, while this book is more of a philosophical essay wrapped around a story, Ms. Woolf’s book, on the other hand, is rather a Story primarily, with a philosophical touch. This book is blatantly philosophical, dwelling into the dangerous territory of religion and how a growing mind looks at God. It begins with his school, whe…

Bahubali 2- The Conclusion- Movie Review

We are living in an extremely cause-heavy world where causes - real and imagined cloud our minds. I saw this in the case of the movie - Beauty and The Beast. There the quarrel of the social commentators was that it explored the gay angle of one of the characters only briefly, only fleetingly. There can be nothing more absurd than that. You are demanding more from an artist than possibly he can offer. Art is a profession of lonely persuasion, and it serves the purpose its creator desires it to serve. Nothing more and nothing less. It is sad and unfortunates that the liberals, which in Indian context largely translates to Leftists, insists that art is nothing but a vehicle that should be provided to them for their political agendas and narratives to ride on. It is like insisting that the reference to the Negroes in the "The Great Gatsby" should have been expanded to cover racism in detail. The brief episode was merely to substantiate the character and nothing more. Just as cre…

Resurrecting Hinduism- Without Embarrassment

I have been pondering about the sense of despondency, the sense of shame which has been imposed on the Hindu thoughts in Indian society. Every act of faith has to be explained, justified. When partition happened, Muslims fought and obtained an independent Nation, while the other large chunk of population, which, in spite of numerical supremacy, was subjugated for centuries, got India. In line with inherent openness and flexibility of Hinduism, India became a secular nation. This is a matter of pride, since it acknowledged the basic secular nature of Sanatan Dharm. However, as things would evolve, vested political interests considered India as unfinished agenda standing in the path of a religious empire being built world-wide. Through a well-calculated intellectual conspiracy of neglect and vilification, it came to a stage that modern Hindus where embarrassed of their religion and apologetic of their faith. This neglect also resulted in the religion being left to the guardianship of un…