A snap of my mom and dad
adorns my city flat.
They were at a Bombay studio
of the nineteen-thirties
posing for their wedding snap.
It was perhaps a sweltering summer day
when air-conditioning was unknown
when studio men sweated, struggled,
yet never forgot to smile
and egg their customers to beam.
My young mustachioed dad,
singularly masculine,
a roaring lion who thought the world was under his feet,
in an immaculate suit
that spoke of his vision and dreams,
my mom a village lamb,
transported to city life,
docile like a domestic pet
that knew nothing but mew and smile,
posing for a wedding shot
on a sweltering Bombay eve.
The lion had dreams,
so did the lamb;
no one knew there was an impending crash,
as time slowly undid the lion,
leaving the bleating lamb in tears.
No one knew the torrents she wept,
no one heard the lion’s desolate roar,
fraught with pain, incurably sick,
as he perished at frustration’s desperate depths,
leaving us his unfortunate kids
to endlessly recapture the tragic angst
and sing its singular pain.
Mom and dad, through your wedding snap,
bless my household which has many a fault.
Every morn I look at you,
a new sun smiles and makes the world.
Isn’t it for us the sun and stars are made,
so we never forget to smile
in pain and in tearful nights?
Mom and dad, my ache is sweet
just because you two beam your wedding smile.
May my household and life ever shine
in eternal thanksgiving to both of you.
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