My grandma has tears in her eye.
The wind that blows now is full of dust.
She opens her eye in contempt and disgust.
She cannot look up to the dry barren horizon.
She closes her eyes in pity and remorse.
A tear, tired and impotent like her dreams
Aimlessly down her cheek –
Finding its lonesome way
Through the wrinkled highway.
I hold her palm.
But her fingers don’t speak to me like they used to.
They don’t even stir.
However the wrinkles steadily are making
An impression of passive hopelessness.
Those are the fingers that had sown
So many seeds in the backyard
Of the old house.
All that is gone now.
The tenements now have paved –
Cemented – covered – constructed places
In the backyard, for inevitable chores
Like washing and storing things.
No room for her plants now.
Grandma, I believe died with her plants.
I want to wipe out her tears
And tell her that the world is
Never the same next second.
What with all these thermonuclear tests,
Ozone holes, Acid rains, Scams, Bans,
Global Warming etc. etc….
And this one-eyed monster of a TV…
The world is changing too fast for me too.
I want to tell her that I’m perhaps
As outdated and old as she is.
I want to go on living and am
Grateful to her.
‘Coz she first bore the womb
That brought me to this world.
I don’t think she’ll apprehend.
She’ll go on living with that
Lost, forlorn and deceived look
In her sad teary eyes
And see the posterity dance to the tunes
That don’t even sound like music to her.
But I believe she died with her plants.