Lost in the stars

Lying on our backs,  in summer blankets,  gazing at the dome of the sky,  the stars and constellations  sprayed like fine glitteri...

Wednesday, December 25, 2013

Mettlesome

I turn around.
Wrinkled face,
Back bent,
Short baby steps
And knitted scarf on her head.
Gran!
Instinctively,
As if she hears me.
She looks up.
I am disappointed,
Hold back my tears,
And
Busy myself on mobile.
Before stealing a look at her again.
Somebody spares a seat for her.
She hesitates,
Like
Her eyes seeking permission
From all of us standing,
Like
Apologizing,
For being favored.
I steal a look again,
Seated,
Singing to herself perhaps,
Looking out of window,
Like a young tiddler,
Awed by the
Whole metro-paraphernalia.
And then
The bus rings with
His insistent cries
Growing louder by the minute.
The crowd encouraged
His harried father
To take the seat.
I looked back
At the commotion,
Only to see that Gran
Had spared her seat
For the father-son duo
And joined the
Standing milieu.
Proudly.
She stood
Close enough
That
I could breathe
Her grimed shawl.
She turned to me,
Her voice
Just an audible whisper
“The child was crying”.
Currents well up inside me.
A schoolgirl
Offers her seat.
Gran is seated now,
Again singing to herself,
Awed by
Sights beyond the window.
Awed myself,
I look-on
Until it’s time,
For me to de-board.