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.
