Too early to die

Back at my ol’ man’s place

was a mango tree.

We called it ‘Jugala’, out of love.

Childhood swung on those branches

and many August nights spent beneath it

And just like all good things,

those hugs and kisses were soon parted.

And that October morning, when I left

It stood there. Bidding me adieu.

Letters came and so came love
And they were pregnant with its scent

Probably the postmaster had rested in its shadow

The stories cry of its loneliness,
about the empty swings that hung from its branches

In those early days,

I used to write back

But with each passing day,
I traded my innocence.

Promises. Trust. Emotions.
Looked beautiful in black and white

Those roads that trailed down to its bark
were swallowed by weeds and deadly crops.

Summer passed. Autumn. And then winter.

And then Eighteen such changes.

Senility

One day, while I was watering my bougainvillea,

A letter spoke.

About the road construction happening back home,

back at my ol’ man’s place.

And while they did, they chopped down a few of ’em.

Few trees.
Someone told that one of them was a mango tree.

Memories flushed in,

Back at my ol’ man’s place

was a mango tree.

We called it ‘Jugala’, once, out of love.

Years ago, I heard a dead man talking,

“Pay me a visit while I can still complain,

Your flowers on my grave will be blown away, otherwise.

Had I been there, I would have put them in a vase

Sitting across which, we could share some laughs.”

Too early to die

Too early to die

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