The photo’s on the same shelf, the two of us -
my hair thick and springy, my saree pleats mussed
by one dangling leg, much younger limbs draped
across the armrest, lithe, lighter, well-shaped
body and spirit. My father on the chair,
wears his usual dignity and sparser hair.
Both of us unmindful, quite unaware
that it was the last time we’d get to share
a seat quite so closely, the last of times
when his chairs would feel so completely mine.
We use up things – arms, armrests, odd cushions
oblivious of the final occasions.
Someone clicks a photo by random chance,it takes years to get its significance.
It's my father's 21st birthday today. Wishing you happy, and tranquil times ahead, Baba.