Friday, April 22, 2011

Because I know no other!


That broad, strong frame,
Those blushed up red cheeks,
Bright and chirpy eyes,
That curly asset — his hair
Like the tendrils to hold my little fingers in,
And sometimes my ball pen and paper rocket
I can never forget those mystery coils
Smooth as bed, pitch black, oily and shiny,
The hairs of my Papa.

His small sharp black beard
From where I learnt what sensation was all about
When he rubs his beardy cheeks on me
I chose to forget the world
And he, his’ on my giggling...
The soapy creamy lather
Just like the butter on the b’day cake
The walk of the razor on his face
And the small toffee as gift for holding the mirror.

Neat, clean and firm
With few bluish veins
I remember those hands
I think of them often
They were the only set of hands
Capable of lifting me up whenever I fell
Tailor-made
Just to anchor me anytime.

Those hands
Walks through my naughty hairs
Making me fearless
When Mom shouts at my mischief
And becomes a slapping machine
When getting caught smoking the half burnt beedi* of grandpa
Full of mystery
The hands of my Papa.

Holding me through my testing times
Nurturing me out of my pain
I can never forget
Rock solid, passionate, loving, and artistic—
The hands of my Papa.

The waiting for festivals
The early rise in the morning
The searching for the new dress
And fighting with my elder bro
For telling his dress better than me
Papa’s rescue hugs and kisses on forehead
Forgetting the fight on the joy of being dearer
Still pondering, still searching for the same
But can’t get with 30K** Armani or 50K Tuxedo.

Bank for me was his wallet,
Shoulder as vehicle…
Love for me was snuggling up to his nose,
Just as I did when I was a kid,
Smell for me was his sweaty shirts,
Which I could smell three rooms apart,
Touch for me was when he pressed my head
And I would pass out into deep slumber,
Religion for me was his prayers in the morning
And above all,
Happiness to me was a picture of him in his handsome, glorious past.

I often ask myself:
Why this obsession?
Why this undying, untainted love?
Why these urge to spot him in a crowd?
The only answer I get to all these baffling questions is — because I know no other!

No wonder, today, when I think back on these words
Love, happiness, religion — I can’t seem to find meaning in them.
Their connotation and implication in my life has changed,
Just like my Papa
But, the one thing that has not changed is his hands,
They still can lift me up when I fall,
Hold me through testing times and nurture me out of my pain.

He is, unfortunately, not the same,
His broad-strong frame has shrunk into a fragile reminiscence of his past,
His cheeks are shrivelled, thus can’t blush up,
His beautiful, bright black-eyes
Are glazed and tainted forever with an ocean of pain, responsibility and experience.
His curly asset, they have shed, balding him of his demeanour.
My handsome hero has surely changed,
But my love for him never will!
Because I know no other!


Notes:
* Beedi = Similar to cigar but mostly used in Indian countryside
** K = Thousand

1 comments:

smaranika priyadarshini said...

So neatly knitted.
Nice job Dude.