I had just crossed the bar at age five when he had left me.
I get angry at him when I need help; you know that father and son things. I couldn’t and can’t classify my emotional state when I miss him when I search for s’one to held my hand. I s’times envy my friends when I saw their father helping them to learn the riding, consulting them on life and love, pushing them to be a better person.
When I looked at the pictures he had taken to treasure my childhood, I found myself to be redefining myself. I am so much in awe with the pictures of mine taken by him that I dislike to get clicked. The only exception my brother. He also, though, s’times get angry at me. Clicking you made me feel like am a wildlife photographer, waiting for the perfect snap of the tiger…he complain e’time, always (for the info–the profile picture here had been clicked by him).
Another person was there in front of whom I used to surrender to get clicked. It was my ex. No, am not going to talk about her.Because this post is dedicated to my father (I get angry at him for not being beside me to console and help me to bring her back).
Here’s the last picture that was taken by my father of mine 24 years ago followed by a poem written a few months ago remembering my father.
A shroud of elusive thoughts started shrouding me that morning, out of the blue.
I, at first, didn’t pay attention to it ’cause I was basking in the young morning light–
Reading Unaccustomed Earth, sitting at my favorite cozy space on my sofa.
Patterns of the floral window frame was casting an elusive, imaginary kind of collage–
On my shoulder and the space around me, (and) also was over-spreading–
Over my shoulder, a little on the page I was reading.
I looked up, thinking s’thing that I can’t recollect now at the moment–
It’s one of those imprecise thoughts I have daily–then and now–
And forgetting at the very next moment or few moments later–
Before the turn of an hour mostly.
A yellowish worn out memory amalgamating with the sun-shaded floral print–
Visioned me of a man; he seems to be me in my older age–
Not much, ten years more from now.
He’s sitting beside me with the newspaper on his face–
And cigarette tucked between his fingers…
I had had this kind of vision before, many time–of this man specifically.
It’s an elusive vision of my father, who, s’times seems to be a mystical figure to me.
I have no definitive memory of him except few scattered ones,–
Which does not help in paint the picture of his whole, —
But, instead, make the picture abstract where there are few pencil strokes.
The memory, though, I don’t know,–
Whether a made-up one or a bit of memory that has remain tucked with me…
Shroud of elusive thoughts of my father (often ) enveloped me, like this,–
Any time of the day, anywhere I’m at, stopping me what I was doing–
And let me questioned his framed photograph–are you real or not…
Out of the Blue: An Incomplete Portrait (01/24/2017)