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