Clad in a sparkling white kurta pyjama, he sits in the backyard,
White just as pure as his heart, white just as noble as his pride.
He sips the cinnamon flavoured tea,
While humming the gazals from his book of poetry.
There is peace on his radiant face,
His demeanour reflects nothing but grace.
The wrinkles on his forehead reveal his garnered wisdom,
Holding the radio with old songs over the window,
He taps his feet along with the melody.
So lost and yet so focused in his meditations,
Every morning he chants his prayers and felicitations.
Teaching me the spiritual way of life all these years,
And telling me stories to put me to bed, all these nights,
Having turned ninety two, being at the edge of his lifetime,
He still is the wisest and strongest old man you’ll ever meet.
Standing at the porch with rapt attention , I watch him silently,
Smiling to myself, a lone tear escapes my eye.
How transient is human life, I wonder...
Years and lifetimes slip away like fraction of seconds,
And the impending death is what remains as an old age companion.
“Come here, my child” he exclaims!
I see him smiling at me and gesturing me to come to him,
I wipe my moist eyes and try to don a cheerful smile.
He hops from his chair and engulfs me in the tightest and warmest hug,
We sit there together right in the backyard.
Laughing, giggling, chattering and sharing old anecdotes,
The warmth and the peace of the moment, beyond any description,
Singing to the rhythm of life, he still teaches me to live like there is no tomorrow.