I sense my life choked
In my nose.
I wonder how my
Nana did it-
living alone in a farm
for decades,
attending to his cattle,
and narrating
mythological stories
whenever I asked.
I can beat you blokes
any day, both in
eating and working,
He'd say.
He loved his buffaloes,
cows, and hens, and
He loved his lord Vitobha.
His chores got him through,
and his band of friends-
The bhajan mandali.
Sometimes late in the
evening when I feel like
Not eating and sleeping,
and not living-
From somewhere,
the sound of his bicycle
jolts me awake to a
longing for the fritters
He brought from
The Saturday market.
And once again, I start
my life with small efforts.
I get a pen, a poem.
A pan, an omelet-
The trick is to get going
somehow-
The trick is to remember
The soft ambition of
Touching the sky,
From all those days
When he carried me
On his shoulders.