“Your grandfather was a good man;
Hardworking, wise, generous, capable.”
My granny never tires telling me.
Days which are long, slow and lazy
Would see her spinning intricate stories
One after the other, of days long past.
She was just a young woman in 1966
When the peace and harmony of her homeland
Was shattered into pieces, like a broken mirror
Whose pieces reflect myriad shades of pain
Memories of the ravenous next two decades
Haunt her stories, stories she tells today.
Gunshots, curfews, airstrikes, grouping of villages
Loss of lives and properties, and relationships
Displacement, alienation, insecurities
Were then the nightmares all so real.
But through it all, she found love and hope
In a man, the hero of her stories.
Today, all that remain of the past are pictures
Memories, and the scars that refuse to heal.
Her past, however, is not hers alone
She was me yesterday, as I am her today
Her history is my history; her pain is my pain
Her future, my future; her Mizoram, my Mizoram.
And days which are long, slow and lazy
Would see my granny lost in thought
Of cherished memories, and hopes for me.
“Your grandfather was a good man;
Hardworking, wise, generous, capable.
I hope you find a man just like him."
No comments:
Post a Comment