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
