Readers' Forum
Muktad days
It’s just a vase of flowers/ And yet there’s some connect;/ I go there often as I can/ To say to them: I love you yet.
Priests sit and pray — I don’t know if/ These prayers help them on their way;/ I sit and linger back in time/ I hear their voices, far away…
"My daughter,” Mamma used to say,/ "She’s worth a hundred sons.”/ This bond between all moms and daughters — Beyond the grave it runs.
I scattered all the seeds you gave,/ The trees have grown now tall;/ When you left it was still summer here,/ But now I’m into fall.
My eyes now droop with memories/ Those happy times I live again:/ As the priest drones on and on I know/ These prayers are not said in vain.
Books are opened, lamps are lit,/ My joyful past comes bounding back;/ Mothers, fathers, grandies — all.../ Colors flow — now nothing’s black.
Old shadows leap and dance and blaze/ A fragrance now touches my soul;/ Of lives that lived, and then moved on/ The burn has healed — I am now whole.
These prayers bring them back to me,/ From their prayers, I do gain;/ I step out of the temple’s sanctity/ And watch the earth sprinkled with rain.
I come home peaceful, happy, strong;/ My priorities are now back in line;/ It’s only a vase of flowers — I know/ But I’ve been through something divine.
THRITY E. BHARUCHA
thritybharucha@gmail.com
"My daughter,” Mamma used to say,/ "She’s worth a hundred sons.”/ This bond between all moms and daughters — Beyond the grave it runs.
I scattered all the seeds you gave,/ The trees have grown now tall;/ When you left it was still summer here,/ But now I’m into fall.
My eyes now droop with memories/ Those happy times I live again:/ As the priest drones on and on I know/ These prayers are not said in vain.
Books are opened, lamps are lit,/ My joyful past comes bounding back;/ Mothers, fathers, grandies — all.../ Colors flow — now nothing’s black.
Old shadows leap and dance and blaze/ A fragrance now touches my soul;/ Of lives that lived, and then moved on/ The burn has healed — I am now whole.
These prayers bring them back to me,/ From their prayers, I do gain;/ I step out of the temple’s sanctity/ And watch the earth sprinkled with rain.
I come home peaceful, happy, strong;/ My priorities are now back in line;/ It’s only a vase of flowers — I know/ But I’ve been through something divine.
THRITY E. BHARUCHA
thritybharucha@gmail.com
Flower filled muktad vases
Photo: Mahafreen Mistry
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