I am told I was four
When you retired for your ultimate abode.
All I knew at the time
You had met your deadline
On earth
That gasped with divinity’s cue to lug you
to hearth.
Mulling the pallor on your face
The liturgies and everything rest,
I couldn’t fathom the agony
Then that brimmed the familial galaxy.
I am told you had a career trajectory
None like others at the time.
From India to Africa,
Your words gained such capita.
Revisiting the stills now
I realise how two writers were in the same frame that in reverence I bow.
Keen, I am to band with you, to rewind
the foxed body left behind.
Aakriti Sanghi is a restless sucker for life. She observes, analyses, and takes mental notes to serve something intellectually fresh each time, occasionally with a dash of humour too.
Featured image: Zahra Amiri / Unsplash