At my mom, Her grandkids

At my mom, Her grandkids

 

 

Hey Bou!

At you

your grandkids laugh and say

with you, on their Ludu play

the world you used to forget

when dots were set.

Irrespective of opponents’ age

the bitter battle you used to wage.

Your manipulation on the throw

that used to start verbal duel and row

but under games’ magic spell

forgetting row continued the duel.

They joke at you

as their liberty to do

Against your nod to your son

not to eat prawn fish and mutton

but once out of village, your choice

at that, they fun at you in low voice.

The fun they at your recognition’

still your dad’s village as your own

anything of our dad was ours

and those of your dad was yours

even though at the age of twelve years

you parted your dad with tears.

They laugh at “yours and mine”

that you confused them to define.

They argued with us on your thrifty nature

being spendthrift they call you miser

who hordes money for future

as they never learn from you as a teacher.

Once your grandson when aged three

came to me then humbly with a plea

not to take you from him away

as he would miss you as a friend to play.

His appeal in his eyes for you

still amazes me as love true

that a kid can have for his grandmom

To your grandkids, you remained awesome.

Over distance your conversation

enthused them with fresh motivation.

They whisper avoiding us

on TV serial, your focus

when everything you used to forget

and stayed funnily glued to TV set

Underestimated they, you

as smartphone, you never knew

but with your tales of past

all their pride were grassed

as they listened with awe

how your world moved without flaw

with earthen pot , open challah stoking blowing

and vegetables from fence for cocking,

Palenque and bullock cart for traveling

age old locally made tools for tilling

leafs, stem, roots for medication

All those captivated them

as they knew how corona came.

As Panakhai, to you their call sweet

a unique call that no call can compete.

they took you to remain as immortal

Your departure to them is a blow lethal.

 

 

P K Routray’

in the service of Lord

 

 

( Bou we call our mom and mother. To their grandmother, our children call as panache as she used to take Beatles. This poem is written as they may be viewing my mother. We lost our mother aged 92 on 20th May 2021. Ludoo is an indoor game.)