13, West Macott Road

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