I, the Elder now
wait for news of birth
and wellness
and celebrate
from my recliner
technology is my Sanjay
I, the Elder
am asked
"What time was I born, Didi"
" What was my birth weight"
Sometimes I remember,
at others, I don't
as I was not an Elder then
I was just a little girl
7 or 10 delighted to have
a person to hug
and lug around on my hip
and love
And now, I am the Elder
the only one who is witness
to their journeys
And I know now
that if I do not remember
I can make something up
there is no one who will
refute my claim
As I am the last one standing
I, the Elder
But I don't
I tell them the truth,
that I do not remember
I was too busy dancing for joy then
And we remind ourselves
that we will tell our children
and we will write it down
We will take pictures, we will blog, we will record our voices
So they all know..
The Little Brown Box is the alter-ego of my book by the same name. This collection of 70 poems written over 20 years is organised in three sections: Roots, Journeys and Heartstrings. The Little Brown Box is witness to my life. Whatever I could not say to another person, I have said to my journals and these thoughts smile back at me today, cheering me on as I learn some more, grow some more and move on.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Mystery
I wonder about
the sad deprived state of mind
where those who have the most
are still miserable.
As someone who grew up
in a quiet, verdant village
in Goa in the 70s
with no tv,
or radio,
or Internet,
or FB
or what-have-you
Yet enjoyed watching fireflies
on summer nights
and raindrops
on the window pane,
butterflies hatching out of
a small cardboard bex
and ferns on the inside
of the backyard well
and thankfully still retain the wonder
and the joy of starlight
I can safely say that
I am rich beyond compare
What is your loss little one ?
that you are
so easily displeased
(a question to the children I see around me whose parents strive to give more and do more and buy more just for that one look of satisfaction)
the sad deprived state of mind
where those who have the most
are still miserable.
As someone who grew up
in a quiet, verdant village
in Goa in the 70s
with no tv,
or radio,
or Internet,
or FB
or what-have-you
Yet enjoyed watching fireflies
on summer nights
and raindrops
on the window pane,
butterflies hatching out of
a small cardboard bex
and ferns on the inside
of the backyard well
and thankfully still retain the wonder
and the joy of starlight
I can safely say that
I am rich beyond compare
What is your loss little one ?
that you are
so easily displeased
(a question to the children I see around me whose parents strive to give more and do more and buy more just for that one look of satisfaction)
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
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