Meet my fathers

My fathers are those who wrote me 

ten-page letters

all printed in painstaking capitals 

when I hadn't learnt 

to read grown up cursive;

those who cooked me long, 

rich-yellow dals before 

having to rush out to work.

They are all those who 

strode into my spaces

and taught me that writing 

begins with circles, 

with an  “o” not an  “a”; 

and those who stood 

with their feet planted

squarely on soft soil 

and pushed me down 

green-dappled scary pathways 

because unknown is also 

a thrill in the blood.

They are those who bought 

a rupee worth of reel 

and taught me to hold a kite, 

to ride a bike; 

to know which mountains 

to stop at and climb,

and which to let pass;

and how to wash shiny-clean 

nylon doll-hair and 

dress it up bride-style.

They are those who stood by 

with smiles on their lips 

and panic in their hearts, 

as I swung from figs 

beneath which moulted snake-skins 

had been spotted.

My fathers are those who 

told me the same fable, 

night after night, in the hope 

that one day I would find

the rice grain of truth embedded in it;

they are those who saw me home 

through fierce, desert suns

walking, walking so that 

their unobtrusive shadows 

always sheltered me.