With the early rays of the sun seeping into the darkened hall,
He is geared up and ready to undertake yet another casual stroll.
Dragging past the rooms where his kids are snoring trumpets,
He wades past the kitchen covered in just a dhoti and a cashmere blanket.
The idea was to inspect his paddy field and vigil his luminous lawn,
Little does he remember, it’s not his village anymore, for he is in his son’s ‘adopted’ home-town.
He can’t get past the door for it has been specially padlocked to keep him safe,
Frustrated he despises all the love and attention, for in that moment he wishes to be treated like a waif.
In the next moment he realizes that he’s done enough already, so why to care?
He goes by the balcony and gives the rising sun, a long man-to-man stare.
Boiling the kettle, he helps himself with tea that is painted not brown but usually green,
Rocks back in his chair and reflects on the photo-albums; his memories serene.
He has to wait till seven as the family awakes,
He is already at the table, clueless what to do with the packet of cornflakes,
The room is suddenly filled with noise, as they all get busy to kick start their daily race,
In an era of bullet trains, he is the lone horse galloping at his own pace.