Prompt scribbling!!
This exact chair is home, for my Baba. I used to see him, crunching over newspaper, along with gossiping fellows around, making decisions, with full volumed radio. He never failed to walk on the lane, and to remind others about the essence of "inquisitiveness". With crisp white dhoti draped, he always popped harmonium tunes, and cloned the world to his raga.
It's like, he would never tell you to manage, but you will know in future, he had already taught you everything, one by one, inch by inch! Being a teacher, he felt proud to call thousands of their students as his "owned" byproduct. Journals - expense records - Gita excerpts - Rudraksh beads - and his favorite song "Pankh hoti to ud aati re" , reminded me of his love. He jotted all raw feelings on the paper, wrapped under Parker Pen aura.
In every summer days, he counted all mangoes, just to calculate the numbers - how much he can eat in a day. No mangoes should be wasted, at all. I remember his honey bottle. He used to give one tablespoon of it precisely, and let us eat with chapati. It felt like home, till now, whenever I eat the same way.
Last year, when he left, he already explained the responsibilities to me, how should I handle. Or why should I handle, indeed. He was, and is my vase full of bright flowers, blooming with kindness and love. I know he is out there, among twinkling stars, but he must have been praising me.
I am starving for his love, and he must be more eager to teach me all lessons of Gita.
Just because of all my running mind over small unintentional memories, I might look shaky with relatives, inconstant with strangers, or loosened up with friends, but I am poetically stable!
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