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13, West Macott Road

My limbs are weak and body old,
Tired am I and withered are my bones,
The skin has wrinkled and is quickly peeling off,
The heart is lifeless and tears have dried,
My feet are shrinking and unbearable is my weight
None to love me, none to cherish me 
None to adorn me, none to watch me with eyes so loving 
As they would when I was young and in glory abounding.

No comparison there can be 
Between the vesture when new and now so ragged.
Three score years ago 
There was a hubble-bubble all around
With small prattling feet and roaring laughter
The house was a theatre with natures apart
Debating at the tables and eyes in the books.
Marathons run and piling trophies from cupboards a-falling.

The grand old father of Indian horticulture
Was busy with his scribbling hands
And experimenting with his precious flora
In every nook and corner,
In his lotus rockeries and his flowering canisters,
In his very garden of paradise smiling at
The tiny tots scrambling up his guava trees
Playing hide and seek around the colossal gulmohar trees.

The atlas like banyan tree with its strong bearded shoots
Had children swinging and monkeying in the air
It happily bore the weight of the sturdy tree-house
For evening tea's served with handshakes of everlasting friendships.
The huge black ford stood at its footsteps ready
With a chauffeur-in-waiting for those that lived afar
And a retinue of attendants for every little chore, serving  guests 
While festivities were on beside the ferny fish-pond.

The grand old lady had stories galore
Of the days in the british raj and pre partition joys
Her nose tip balanced her round rimmed frames
Reading languages her childhood was unable to bestow
Her binoculars in hand kept the young ones on toes
Watching the cook's offsprings gathering fuel for their slurpy -slurpy suppers.
Busy was her day churning butter-milk and pickles
Exciting were the nights for the grandma's mystifying lullabies.

The nest is empty now without a sound
The grand old man and his dame 
Carried away some to their new sodden earth home
The others too old to pay me a visit
The young fledglings wings carried them away
To newer grounds and pastures many-many times greener.
The Poona days are over yet happy the soul
I reside in the hearts of those whose hearts are forever here.

Balveen Cheema
September 4, 2015
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