To my father:
Now, when I’m writing this,
I realize that I was born in some
distant, older time
when mobiles and tablets
hadn’t tasted any speck of light,
Paper and pen were the only ones
that could hug writing, seal the golden words,
However, it was those pens of yours
that drew me closer to your working space,
Those inking blue or black
secured refills,
To my eyes they were the unbeatable,
unbreakable warriors
destined to the immortality of Names;
Those priding the red –
sometimes vibrant vermillion,
sometimes the echo of blood, colour of life-essence
In my mind stirred some changes, some corrections,
some righteousness
when you said it was meant for paper-marking,
Yet most of the time
I managed to have them by my side,
giggling through my scribbles
of letters learnt, some fishes drawn;
As my observations sharpened,
I filled the lines with ticks or crosses
confident that they were as wise as you
I was thrilled to act like you
To my mother:
Since, I was destined to be in the school
where you taught,
I had access to your classroom in recess time;
Those were the times,
when the boards were still black
and for some time the chalks coral-rough.
White chalks were gloomy and dull,
Pink, green and yellow made the words
and shapes so elegant,
lively and fun to memorize,
Then, one day softer yellow,
velvet like chalks were brought
as companions to the blackboards;
Oh what a delight they were to the soul
of knowledge !
When you took a break and went out
during lunchtime,
together with my classmates – some sons
and daughters of other staff,
I played The Teachers;
The smoother chalks were all ours,
Verbs, Maths, how to create birds or girls’ faces,
we’d all help each other,
But when the bell rang its sharp-over,
the tallest of us erased it all faster;
You were back,
You asked me,
“ What were you writing?”
I replied,
“I taught them something,
just like you do.”
“ What was it? “ You went on,
I just shrugged and smiled.
Then, replied,
“To be patient and learn.”
Vatsala Radhakeesoon