Of Father, Son 'n Superman

For my Father - a man of esprit and action.


Father and I
share a warm
filial kinship.
Our orbits cross
at dinners
or lunches;
we exchange
pleasing glances,
he tenders me first bite
from his morsel -
a ritual we've been
practising for ages.
Then we talk about food,
weather, work, music,
state of Indian politics,
recent book I read,
verses I scripted,
and my latest idiosyncrasy.

See, most of it is about me!

Talking with him
is pleasantly cathartic.
One, he is ideologically
pragmatic.
Two, he speaks not
of oranges,
when I am
talking peaches.
Third, his speech
bridges our spirits.

Despite ills,
his benign smile is
fascinatingly
fascinating.
Blues affect me,
but not him;
his demeanor is
perpetually pleasing.
Oft he pats my back
and says he
takes pride in
perfection.
Somehow, I can't
bring myself
to associate
with his wanton
benefaction.
Perhaps, he's just
being kind,
for he's my Father
and I his son.

His humility
is humanely humbling.
He flowers the dead
and salvages the tumbling.
He never fumbles
for dimes and nickels,
ardently believes
they are fickle -
ones to be expended
on poor and piteous.
A mark of a man
humble and righteous.

The buck stops here.
Am I doing enough
to shelter his unbridled love
and care?
I seem too busy
(scratching my head
with rows of books
behind me)
to shoulder his
responsibilities.
But he gifts me infinity
to quench my fervid
intellectual curiosity.
Perhaps, this is what
love is meant to be.

Like a sorcerer,
he ferments my distress
to happiness
(thousand flambeaux
turn all at once)
and protects me from torrential
harmattan.

No wonder my Father is my Superman!