Friday, 13 February 2009

Dadi (My dads mother)

She lays in bed, reclined against pillows
Talking to me, her face wrinkled
Eyes glazed, hair white, teeth broken,
Speaking of her experiences,
Mostly a repeat of stories told before.

Beside her rests a frame of her youth
Black and white pronounced beside real life colours
Mysterious eyes, charcoal hair, smile aglow,
Reeking of fresh innocence,
Oblivious to life’s lessons that would eventually unfold.

Sharing her tales some good some bad
Re-living moments, reminiscing, relaying,
Speaking of her husband late,
With reverence starkly bold,
Hinting a solitude in his absence now that she’s old.

She hopes to pass her experiences
Down to her children’s children
Who in their busy lives seldom sit down to listen
She diligently repeating, unaware of their restlessness
to go back to their fast paced lives, afar from her listlessness

Her lessons surely have something to learn from
Her stories sometimes offensive
She was raised amidst superstitions
And racial rules and norms
Of people belonging to classes, too many rights and wrongs

With age I have learnt to ignore things
that seriously disagree with my growth and education
With a smile I sit beside her listening to her narration
Ignoring the repeats, that in my head I know by heart
Praying she finds peace, when our home and us she departs.

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