My Friend's Father

I was scared the moment he crossed the hallway

An employed man sweating in his Indian business suit

I gaped at him – a strange presence amidst my aura

A sight that I longed to have at my house and failed, God

For it was never His fault but the sloth’s

It was not unusual as it was my second time

The first was at my cousin’s, Chennai- a year ago

When I gawked at his towering father who had changed his formal attire into casual white-banyan

Whilst we were asked to dine for traditional style lunch.

An incoherent comparison in my head descends ;

Where I place the unreal head of the family- a pathetic identity

Oh that I wish I could strip off, discard and call my memory off

As he 2009 sweated neither his blood nor tears

But expects respect, love and care unblemished

How do I call myself a daughter to a 'berozgaar'

Who would never even ask me for tea or share his food or buy me or my mother new clothes

By neither making a duo with any of us?