Monday, August 10, 2009

A No-body's biography



Sitting in the balcony,
Of his son’s apartment,
Arvind wore an armed ‘baniyan’,
His era’s unique garment

Earlier in the day,
His friend Uday,
Received a lethal stroke,
Of his family of eleven,
Just a daughter seemed broke.

As the procession
For its final destination left,
Of all his timely companions,
Arvind was left bereft.

As his mind went for a stroll,
Down the memory lane,
Deep inside him, somewhere,
He could feel sublime pain.

At sixteen the most notorious,
Kid of his school,
Every trophy in the city,
His daring willows would pull.

Such was his love for willows that,
He passed his inter on boundary,
Got a mere thirty-five,
And received rebukes sundry.

Secured a seat at seventeen,
In a college of his choice,
A smile flashed under his pop’s moustache
As sports quota they rejoiced.

He went to college on his “lamby”
And never missed his school,
Was intoxicated by socialism,
In the lecture’s interlude.

Enrolled into a student’s wing,
And his father titled him a fool,
With a beard and the largest group,
Girls over him would drool.

A petite girl with deer eyes,
Often caught his eye,
In a Salwar amongst sari-clad,
She had her own revolt to ply.

In library-books with a pencil
Their love found its messenger,
“Will you marry me?” he asked her,
Page ninety three of Shakespeare.

He graduated in second class,
And found a decent job,
One night before her marriage,
Both of them eloped.

They came to Bombay,
And rented an old parsi house,
Next day, signed on dotted lines,
And Arvind had his spouse.

That night in their arms,
As love fully bloomed,
He discovered her tender warmth,
And intimacy mushroomed.

At eight in the morning,
Everyday he would leave for work,
By six every evening,
He returned home with a smirk.

A year later Mithila,
Gave birth to a son,
Next winter with a promotion
And a child due
Life was full of fun.

In the local train he made pals,
And had a big group at work,
A face popular in his society,
He knew his bank’s clerk.

He knew the postman by his name,
And also the vegetable vendor,
Uday, his best pal who left today,
Was his next door neighbor.

Every weekend on the terrace,
Blended scotch they would sip,
Kabuli Chana to their company,
Till the dusk would creep.

Soon the gloomy dusk kissed
The horizons of his life,
Kids grew up, married away,
To time he lost his wife.

One by one, day after day,
His time’s faces left,
A decade later at eighty five,
Just Uday and he were left.

He spent his days
Chewing memories
Of the days bygone,
At night in dreams,
Would come his dad
And call him a moron.

The march crossed the lane
Took a right,
And crossed
His line of sight,

The final tear
Of his times, shed
No tear was left
For his final flight.

3 comments:

wildstriker said...

quite captivating entire lyftym in a single poem :D.

keerti said...

touchy......

Vrushali said...

Too good...