“through the act of living, the discovery of oneself is made concurrently with the discovery of the world around us. . ."

Wednesday, August 20, 2008


Its spine broken and torn

Leaves left devoured by silverfish,

Corners crumbling with age -

My hands tremble as I open the book.

Carefully, tenderly, I turn the frontispiece -

Shabby, tattered yet holding up together

With a dignity that only books can have -

I shake out the dust and faecal matter.

The book is still silent, slightly embarrassed

But not showing any -

Like my mother, paralysed

As I clean her with wet cotton blobs.

In the left corner of the first page

The book said -

‘With all good wishes to my son’

Signed, my father, forty years ago.

I run my fingers over the lines

Lift up the book to smell it deep

Rest my palm where he would have -

I am in touch with my father.

For my child, what do I leave

Would he care

Would he gratify me -

With immortality?

Would he

Standing alone in the mountains high

Would he

When snowflakes fall, kissing his face?

Would he

When winds roar past his face

Would he

When the hills fall silent?

*********** Balachandran, Trivandrum 20-08-2008

1 comment:

  1. Its amazing something so earthly can hold such a connection, isn't it? It could be something that belonged to a stranger,still it can connect us in a chain, a circle of life which will live as long as its there!

    As usual,B, love the movement of ideas,very fluid!


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