Celebrating A Subset of Half Century of Memories

It is hard to capture what I feel,

For my bigger whole whose subset I am, 

In Venn diagram speak.

I shall try nevertheless, as futile as it may be

To tend towards the depths that tie me to you, towards infinity.

Even before I found my feet, 

You gave me flight;

Higher than corrugated roof of your bungalow in Khurai, 

On those summer days did I fly,

Literally and figuratively.

Nanaji and you,

Gifted me with sturdy wings to soar

Into exquisite worlds of mathematics, sports and more;

Mami introduced canvases and colors galore,

And Nanima, poems of battle field heroes of yore.

Each summer morning was pure bliss,

Marking the beginning of a new adventure,

Away from the rat race and bustling metropolis,

In hinterland, I was Tom Sawyer’s Indian caricature.

Imitate you I would, dapper that you looked,

Decked in tennis whites, wrist bands and bandanas;

Mirroring your air of confidence,

I strutted behind fueled by ‘besan laddoos’,

Buoyed by dreams of athletic glory and eminence.

Vanquish you would lesser mortals in tennis,

And teach me to bowl fast, like Lillee Dennis.

With razor sharp reflexes in table tennis,

And ability to smash shuttle cork into strategic spaces,

I was all the way your awestruck apprentice.

Despite the harshness of those hot afternoons,

Undefeatable was my spirit,

With onions in my pockets

Warding off spells of vily summer ‘loo’

We’d zip off in jeeps ‘sarkari’ to far-flung hamlets.

Summer nights were not bereft of magic,

As you sorcerers gathered for wizardry,

Reciting chants with laughter, conjuring many-a strategy,

Over ritualistic game of cards,

On hills of Char Imli.

I distinctly remember how I felt like Simba,

Looking out into the Valley of Patal Kot

Ruled by my Leo Mama.

Or how I felt, with grandparents in tow, like TinTin in South America,

Who had chanced upon Inca caves behind waterfalls in Tamiya.

Swimming with imaginary sharks in Narmada,

Was no big deal for us brave royals of Mandla.

We slept surrounded by rarest of species in Kanha,

And trekked to thousand waterfalls, Sahasradhara,

Our summer reunions were indeed quite the gala.

I wonder if jealousy would envelop Rani of Jhansi,

If she saw me glide above highlands of Pachmarhi,

Or saw me taste the sweet ‘shakar kandhi’,

That mami cooked on the eve of 1992 World Cup final in Khurai.

These memories,

As distant in time and geography

As they might be,

Are etched within forever

And remind me,

In the darkest and hardest of moments

That I have already visited heaven

And that it exists;

That I was and am loved,

Not by one but by many.

Thank you for being you, 

For loving and shaping me.

So happy, happy birthday, Mama,

What a splendid half century.

I hope you can hear us all clap in the stands proudly,

Expecting and awaiting your century.

For the record, you always were and will always be, my hero.