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)