'Vithoba' he would say.
Whatever you do, wherever you're.
While eating, shitting, traveling.
Specially before you hop
Into a vehicle. You gotta
Remember his name.
My mother's father- he was
The most spiritual and
Humblest man I've ever met.
He spent most of his life,
In a small farmhouse.
The trees, cattle and poultry
Is all he needed he would say.
He taught me how to- climb
A tree, graft a sapling,
Pick cashews and roast them
To the right taste.
Those winter mornings and his
Little sessions on the tricks to
Cut grass and bundle it in small
Parcels so that I could carry it.
The mythological stories he would
Narrate in the evenings.
About the King and four shepherds.
About the demon who would be reborn
From each drop of his slain blood.
Sometimes he would ask some
Mathematical questions from
His time. And if you answered
He would declare you're the smartest
Kid around.
When he passed away last summer
Due to prostrate cancer,
I received the news late,
As I was elsewhere in a
Meditation camp.
While I waited for the bus to
Return home for the obituary.
I hated the fact that I couldn't cry.
The smell of oily fritters, when it
Wafted past my nose-
I remembered those Saturdays
When he peddled to the local bazaar
To sell vegetables and bought
Fritters and other snacks.
I uttered Vithoba's name while
I stepped into the bus.
The atheist, I'd become as I grew-
It was the first time in years
I remembered God.