Tuesday, July 17, 2018


You were born.
And your birth made him so happy
that he cried.
He held you in his hands
with reverence.
And he spent every second
of his short break
looking after you with love.
But you were too small, too infantile,
to register the word father.
Then he left. For his duty.
Service to family over,
it was time to serve the nation.
He had served his family with love.
He served his nation with sacrifice.
When they brought him home,
wrapped in tricolour,
the sad commotion surprised
the wide eyed toddler in you.
When they laid him in lobby,
you crawled up to his motionless body,
gently shaking his shoulder,
as if he would wake up from his eternal slumber.
When they laid him in coffin with state honours,
you patted the wooden box, repeatedly,
to hear the dull thud
your small hands made against rough wood.
Recognition, zero. Outright organic innocence.
That stirred the souls of the entire nation.
You may not recall this when you grow up,
but we do hope that you become his shadow.
Conscientiously dutiful

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Since every thought is a seed, I am looking forward to a delicious harvest.