Forgive me, dear Papa

Shyamasri Maji

Forgive me, dear Papa

For being a mole underneath your eye

It bothers you while reading a newspaper

And makes you feel depressed sometimes. 

 

When a train rattles in the dumbness of night

You wake up and walk into our little balcony,

The groans of the city remind you endlessly—

The mole in your eye is growing cancerous, 

Big!

As big as an unmarried girl of thirty-six!  

She stands like a skyscraper  

Shaking hands with the sun in the smoky sky

Whistling to the strands of her graying locks

Like the age-defying men 

You admired in the Bombay movies

Rain clouds float across your eyes…

 

On your head

The sky falls every now and then

In the tip of your fountain pen

Shadows quiver with a safety pin,

You complain to Mum

Her sarees grumble in a trunk of tin.

I hold your hands 

To say what I really mean

Forgive me, dear Papa, to you I sing, 

My song reels down the Kashmir green.