She is many things – a nurturer, a confidant, an amateur writer, a career woman. But at the moment that she watches her father sitting near her, she is just a daughter !
Rusted, cracked, gone parched over the years
The wall still stood strong.
Withered, stooped, dried over the years
The tree still rooted strong.
Dusty, monotonous, breathless gone over the years
The clock still run strong.
Wrinkled, freckled, turned salt and pepper over the years
The mane still shine strong.
The city which a daughter calls her hometown
There lives a man who possesses no brawn.
A man who amongst the hoi polloi treading the old lanes of town
embodies the tress, the tree, the clock and the bound.
For the face that still stood strong and is one in a million!
The man whom his daughter calls Papa.
The daughter who wallows in neither prejudices nor chauvinism
But with a demeanour festooned with steely aspires and confidence to the brim
Attempts each day to tread the footprints left by him.
Hopes alive, that one day , she too will be remembered for a heart
that cannot be easily forgetten amongst the hoi polloi treading the old lanes of Meerut.
Smile adorns her eyes in the morning sun
Seeing him ruminating,
He, a few golden rays relishing.
She turns around once again, and ponders,
The ageing wisdom, it takes years and not a day,
You will have to wait, she says.
