Born on the easternmost lands, of endless emerald tea beds,
Raised next door, among hardships and relentless monsoons,
I was two when father’s unquestionable adversities swept us away from home;
427 miles elsewhere.
My small feet soon forgot the love and comfort they once felt,
Back home. They were now masked in mud,
From scampering around in the never ending fields of
Struggle, toil, for the first time,
I gazed into valiant, dark eyes
They were just like the brilliant, unclouded skies
“Son,” he said, “be kind.”
Expectations from the New Government!
At 14, curiosity was the pair of wings I had grown.
They’d fly me away from the plight that was life
I lived stubbornly, ignorantly, blindly.
I saw life naively, nothing more than an
Unforgiving, uphill battle.
Again, I gazed into passionate, dark eyes
They were just like the brilliant, unclouded dimmed skies
“Son,” he said, “be kind.”
At 22, time there fleeted by.
Magnificent edifices engulfed me,
As did the swarm of strange new faces.
I longed for home. From 2,400 miles elsewhere,
I awoke to the noise of a telephone,
A call tracing from Assam, from home.
“Father has passed, come back.”
I let the phone drop, along with the dial tone
which led to my numbness and then, silence.
A violent, vigorous storm was passing.
A violent, vigorous streak of lighting,
Had struck, and the sorrow swallowed me whole.
I left for home. Faces painted with grief
The tears left puddles of misery
He lay lifeless, right before the raging fire.
Then I said my goodbyes.
One last time, I gazed over father’s shut eyes
They were still the brilliant, unclouded skies
“Son,” I could hear him say, “be kind.”
