Tandon Saab

Grandpa says, 'I'll be 87 soon',
He folds his hands and mumbles His name,
Once again the stories of his youth begin,
How his son would jump out of a moving school bus,
An unshed tear lurks around the corner,
He misses his son, my father,
Then it’s time for his favourite poem,
'Life without wife...is indeed no life',
I have now heard the umpteenth time.

1947, the year of partition, through his eyes is intriguing
The era of babu's, Rai Bahadur, the Nehru’s,
So different from my world,
He speaks of ‘ikanni’,
One paisa that was my dad’s pocket money,
Infaltion, he says is through the roof,
He retired in 1985 at a salary of six thousand rupees,
Now his pension is a little under fifty grand.

He laughs often,
The days are dreary; the newspaper keeps him occupied,
The evening walks with friends is postponed,
The neighbour, Kakker Saab is long gone,
After one hour of reminiscing,
He gets up with a jerk and looks at the clock,
‘Doll, talking to you I missed the afternoon serial on DD 1’,
I am forgotten for a while,
Till he comes back to ask,
‘When did you say is your book coming out?’
Alzheimer's is not one of my favourite diseases.