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thoughts

My Grandson


Sundar drinks a can of juice
to the last drop. Places  it
in the refrigerator, walks off.

Late for lunch he sets aside 
the cooked  dishes, prepares 
one of his own,

Emptying half a bottle of sauce
 on a Pizza, he throws a sizeable 
piece into the bin.

Garrulous when he was in between 
five years to eleven, remains  
 tight lipped. 

A nod  up and down for an “yes” 
and one right to left  for “No”
are the gestures he makes.

I watch him from afar as he lives
 thousands of miles away, The cheerful
child I carried in my hip 

is a big boy with a thick moustache,
 long beard, tall, lean, bespectacled
I  look at him with eyes wide open,

 my jaws fall down, I exclaim
“You, my first grand child!”
I bit my lips as I feel he will

detest such outburst. He 
comes forward, hugs me,
an intimate expression  that 
 he is the same old child. 

I