Memories Die Hard

It has been years since Baba died

His ashes were strewn on the Ganges.

But memories die hard.

Memories of growing up come gushing by

Memories of adolescence,

Those of confiding to him of silent love affairs,

Remembrances of singing in full-throated ease

Together, in unison, we could bring the rains lashing down.

As you sat and painted,

I would often sit and wonder

At the ingenuity of each brush stroke

The paints seemed to gel with each other.

Many used to ask me,

“Do you paint too?”

They’ve stopped since you have gone.

 

 

We have seen and heard about the living dead.

Could they tell us of life after death?

Memories die hard.

It is our lot to strive along

On, on , where the land meets with the sea,

Where imagination mingles into the world of dreams.

I wish to ride on the wings of poesy,

And wander and fly to a land

Where all the good departed souls reside,

Therein to seek my father out.

He would be the most reticent and humble of all souls

Just sitting there,

Waiting for Judgement Day.