The times you walked miles,
To Tibet in the Freezing breeze of North,
And to India in the scorching heat of the South.
You strolled on foot for days and months,
In an attempt to fill the yearning bellies of your progeny.
A determined and a renowned astrologer you were,
Whose mind not even wandered over the opulent world.
A man with undying will power,
An astrologer strong enough to step from his ailing bed,
And initiate the rituals for his well being.
At 79, you traveledas far as Nepal,
To have filled our home with all the statues,
And you trusted me enough to have rolled the sacred relics (Kui zung)
That would find a dwelling inside each of them for times immemorial.
You were a man, who led an ascetic life,
Whose rituals cured many,
And brought well being for many other beings.
|The Stupa; Your Memoir.|
At 81, you were strong enough to build a stupa,
Whose magnificence radiated towards our home,
The legacy of your remnants will be ubiquitous.
You were a man, who printed religious texts in bulks,
For the well being of the sentient beings.
I cannot tread the path you have traversed,
But your remnants and my gratuity,
Will be encrypted in the depths of my heart.
A moment to hear your voice,
An instant to have a glance of you.
A time to show my gratitude,
An occasion to payback my gratuity,
To the man who did so much for me,
A man no different than a father,
Have I yearned for so long,
Yet it dissipated into an illusionary mystery.
My vision has been obscured,
By the copious secretion of my tear glands.
Soothing music has no effect,
In ebbing the agony mounting within,
Jokes and laughter of others,
Did none to instigate a smile on my face.
I lay as still and rooted as a stone,
Moaning over the situation which I have no control.
You were a man with immense protective power,
A man whose prayers directed my well being and success;
|Your remnants; the khadar, the letter and the note.|
I still have the Rs.500 note and the letter,
Neatly enclosed in the sacred white scarf (khadar),
Which you have it sent me years back,
When I drifted far from you all for my studies.
I preserve and carry the good omen,
Enshrined in the sacred strings of the khadar.
With all the sentiments embedded in it.
I carry the blessed relics with me.
I don’t moan over your absence,
Neither do I blame you for leaving me behind,
For this is a path that none can eschew;
But I fret,
For not being able to show my gratuity,
For not being able to pay my homage,
For not being able to display my reverence,
To you my grandpa.
And so am I going to be indebted to you forever.