My Magician

It's been an empty decade and a half,

Without your infectious laugh.

No one to eat medu vadas with,

Or drink Sharjah shakes with.

All the ugly fights we fought, 

And the dirty jokes you taught.

Each dreadful morning to school, you were by my side,

To wipe my tears and to give me a ride. 

Your obsession with Hercule Poirot and Baywatch, were unmatched, 

I tried my best to stay detached.

You are my home,

I latch onto every memory of yours, like a honeybee to it's comb.  

(Writer's Note : This poem is about my grandfather, who died when I was a teenager. He made my world alright, without a magic wand or spells. He was always ahead of his time and had a broad-mindedness, which often shocked people of his generation. Needless to say, he was extremely popular and really close with his grandkids.)

Rohan and Grandpa

Rohan was a vivacious 5 year old, born into the Mehta household. Mr and Mrs Mehta were busy image consultants who ran their own boutique P.R agency. They loved Rohan very much and made it a point to spend every free minute with him. The Mehtas lived in a palatial ancestral bungalow. The house and the couple were picture perfect. The Mehtas were very popular among friends and colleagues. Their families took great pride in their achievements, both personal and professional.

Rohan spent all his spare time, post school with his nanny, Kamla. Although he loved Kamla and enjoyed their little games together, he really missed his mommy and daddy. He waited anxiously to be tucked into bed every night by mommy. She would narrate an elaborate fairy tale every night with dramatic theatrics. She would even use puppets to narrate stories, on the nights that she was not very tired. 

Every night, after mommy would finish her bed-time story, grandfather would take over. He was funnier than mom. Every morning, Rohan would attempt to narrate grandfather's fairy tales to his parents, but they were always too busy, rushing to work.

On one particular Sunday, a determined little Rohan, sat his mother down and began narrating one of grandfather's stories. It was about a big red submarine. Halfway through the story, mumma began tearing up.

"Why are you crying Mumma?", enquired a surprised Rohan.

"Who told you this story bacha?", asked Mumma.

"Grandpa", replied Rohan.

His mother quickly rushed inside her room and brought out an old family album. She hurriedly turned the pages of the album, until she found what she was looking for.

"Do you recognize Grandpa, from any of these photographs?", she asked Rohan

"Yes. There he is", pointed an excited Rohan, on the face of a handsome looking middle-aged gentleman. 

The photograph was a faded black and white one, of a cheery looking man in a smartly cut navy blue suit from the early 60s. Grandpa had died 10 years before Rohan was born. The house and the bedroom Rohan slept in belonged to Grandpa. 

(Image Source : https://www.pinterest.com/explore/bedtime-stories/)