Papaji, An Ode To Fatherhood In Color

Papaji, when you lifted me in the air,

with your hands bronzed brown in the hot-baked sun

strengthened due to working the plow

rough, like the tree bark of the eucalyptus tree

that grows on the river side in a steep row.

The village children whisper and they shun things strange,

I don’t run scared from the cursed tree, Baba

after all, I know what it is like to be lonely and estranged.

Baba, the creeping yellow rays lighten your radiant face

I grab at the vibrant green turban on your head,

as you wrap me in the safest embrace.

you wipe the red mud on my cheek

smear it and the shimmery tears of laughter that leaked

You called me your golden princess,

Little did we know misery would soon follow

it chases all young, old, woman or man

brown, rough, red, soft, faces deep or sallow

but just then Dadiji clutched at her rosaries and gave a growl

''you'll break open her head, put her down!''

You laughed until tears shone in your eyes

I gobbled up all the air and color- dark red, yellow and white

In the bright yellow fields that glitter and shimmers

Our grins stick like cotton candy to our mouths

and my eyes, they sting with the setting sun

years later as you grow old-

Blood, red branches grow in your hands and soul

Sad eyes, and blue sickly blood takes over your heart

still you smile and tell me about your beloved, green field

we ran through them a thousand times.

Papaji they split the land, torn into blood-red two

Ghastly colors, lurid blue hues

they still lynch your country men in streets

call it white justice as the land grovels and the heavens weep.

Right where you stood on your own two brown feet

Papaji, you told me about all the colors you see in me

Saffron, rich brown, red and corral green

just like the hidden riches under the cavernous, blue sea

the fruit of your hardest labor, the prettiest green field

You said, I banished the grey, dark hues

and broke open the brighter color and the lightest blue.

You said all brides go to their own homes,

Forget the fields that together we so roamed.

Then the call comes - at two in the morning:

‘’come quickly your father’s been taken ill!’

And just like that the fields I could not forget

that my new home could not make me neglect

Disappears along with all the bright color

and suddenly I’ve got no home;

Father you were exuberant color,

how could you leave me alone?

............

(Author's note: Write all your memories in a moleskin diary!)