Layers of Life
I watch him watch himself
Not with disappointment
Neither with haste
Complete and content within
Perhaps
Laced with an iota
Of a smallish appetite
Like after a bursting meal
To munch a moment more
The recollections of childhood years
The stories of long lost loving uncles and aunts
The case of a snip tailed puppy
The cold village winds
That whetted up his childhood malaria fever
The loss of a mother
The days of bewilderment at her absence
The small red bicycle that tread upon many river beds
Looking for protective shades of love
The unearthing of youth
The writings that pour out of his being
The new found love for language
The words that begin to dispense out comfortably
Bequeathing comfort to the leaking soul
Carefully sculpting the man in himself
I watch him watch himself
Not with disappointment
Neither with haste
Complete and content within
Perhaps
Laced with an iota
Of a smallish appetite
Like after a bursting meal
To munch a moment more
The recollections of childhood years
The stories of long lost loving uncles and aunts
The case of a snip tailed puppy
The cold village winds
That whetted up his childhood malaria fever
The loss of a mother
The days of bewilderment at her absence
The small red bicycle that tread upon many river beds
Looking for protective shades of love
The unearthing of youth
The writings that pour out of his being
The new found love for language
The words that begin to dispense out comfortably
Bequeathing comfort to the leaking soul
Carefully sculpting the man in himself
That he and his father once dreamt of
The ensuing trysts with truth and tyranny
The language and expressions
And volumes of manuscript
Finally bringing monsoon rains to many parched readers
The years of unwavering austerity
At the temple of words
The many crumpled sheets of crisp paper
That rolled their way to the waste basket
The missing lexis that finally emerged
Percolating through layers of the mind
In tandem with
Sweet sounds of the flute and a passing train’s whistle
Close to midnight when a masterpiece was born
The accolades and reviews
The tributes and honors
The blessings of a lost mother
The pride of a dead father
The life partner that respected his very being
The kith and kin that rejoiced in his identity
He carries each with force and vigor
I watch him watch himself
Unravel the layers of life
Again and again
Every layer fully lived
Every moment effusively contributed
A stalwart of courage
A rugged mountain of hope
A mighty river of strength and knowledge
Indulging in just a whiff more
That’s my father
(This poem is written on the occasion of my father visiting me this time at Salt Lake City, Utah. Santanu Kumar Acharya, my father is a novelist of repute. Recepient of the Kendra Sahitya Academy Award, he has more than 40 Oriya novels and short story collections to his credit. An engaging orator, this year he turned 75. The photograph of my parents was taken in Yellow Stone Park with the Gibbon River at the background on Sept 27th).
The ensuing trysts with truth and tyranny
The language and expressions
And volumes of manuscript
Finally bringing monsoon rains to many parched readers
The years of unwavering austerity
At the temple of words
The many crumpled sheets of crisp paper
That rolled their way to the waste basket
The missing lexis that finally emerged
Percolating through layers of the mind
In tandem with
Sweet sounds of the flute and a passing train’s whistle
Close to midnight when a masterpiece was born
The accolades and reviews
The tributes and honors
The blessings of a lost mother
The pride of a dead father
The life partner that respected his very being
The kith and kin that rejoiced in his identity
He carries each with force and vigor
I watch him watch himself
Unravel the layers of life
Again and again
Every layer fully lived
Every moment effusively contributed
A stalwart of courage
A rugged mountain of hope
A mighty river of strength and knowledge
Indulging in just a whiff more
That’s my father
(This poem is written on the occasion of my father visiting me this time at Salt Lake City, Utah. Santanu Kumar Acharya, my father is a novelist of repute. Recepient of the Kendra Sahitya Academy Award, he has more than 40 Oriya novels and short story collections to his credit. An engaging orator, this year he turned 75. The photograph of my parents was taken in Yellow Stone Park with the Gibbon River at the background on Sept 27th).
2 comments:
A most loving tribute from a daughter to her father. Even The Divine Saraswati could not have
written this any better!!
A perfect toast!
Now I know how you get your way with words, specially in your poetry, it is in the genes :)
And one day perhaps, I shall read your father's work too.
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