NanaJaan

The first time I made my Nana read my poetry,

I was anxious and how,

I tiptoed to the verandah, walking as quietly as the evening dusk

Then I tapped on his rocking chair and gave him my diary

Without saying a single word.

He said nothing too, just smiled.

And then he read the poems.

I think it was a November evening

I remember the fogs of breath that came out of his mouth

As he whispered aloud each line.

His cup of tea grew cold.

I asked him if he wants another and he said.

It can wait. Everything can wait.

Then he removed his glasses

And said, "you've written all of them ?"

I nodded. Sheepishly,. Nervously.

He puts his hand on my head and said,

"You're wise beyond your years".

I didn't know what he meant,

Words like 'excellent' or 'well done' would have made more sense.

My face gave away my confusion

And he said : Promise me, you'll never stop writing.

I put out my little finger and said,

Yes , pinky promise.

It was seven winters later that he passed away.

Seven cruel winters in which he fought cancer.

During those, he struggled to read what I had written.

So, I read them aloud, aware the entire time

Of how the tables had turned

And a grandchild was now reading out to her Nana

But none of it mattered.

All that mattered was the way he patted my head after every poem

And I felt wise, like he had told me

Honestly, I don't remember much of what I had written during those days

In fact, I'm sure if I go back and read them today.

I'll cringe . I'll doubt. I'll pause and reflect. Then I'll remember his smile.

After his death, I couldn't write for months.

Words had lost meaning. My poetry had lost its only audience.

But then, I looked at my little finger

And remembered the promise I had made .

In life, we make promises and fail to fulfill most of them.

But this one mattered. And since then, 

Every poem has been a step towards fulfilling it. 

Every poem has been a way of keeping him alive.

On some days, I look for him.