When a  son wrote his dad’s obit,
He would write mostly of debris

Of a dusty table with old papers,
Daughters on dowries and debt.

Could not a son be sentimental
To talk about how big eyes are?

All those dearest who are dead
Have large beauty eyes in faces.

Why does son remember father
On a paper cone with groceries?

A father’s sons are eye’s apples
But son’s fathers are eye coins?

House was leaning on coconut
Through a son’s growing years?

Can son not hold a pretty moon
In bent coconut frond to a sky?

Why blame the dead eyes now
For being a Caesar at his birth?

Aren’t we all with no headstone,
Our lives not even parenthesis?

Because we are a burning type
Our fires are cremated with us.

(On reading a beautiful poem “Obituary” by A.K.Ramanujan)


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