Prompted me to turn back pages,
Of my memoir, written in Chennai,
Short, compact, yet eloquently vivid,
And still in my minds eye, I recollect,
That lady, I reverently called Bhabhi,
For, on her face she wore a grace,
So subtly pure, so gracefully benign.
But she, as the great Irish poet said -
“Loved long and long and grew to be out of fashion,
Like an old song" - pale and thin,
And fell victim to her tumultuous life,
For, her beloved, the destiny’s hapless child,
Had unappeasable kin – impervious and rude,
And scarcely had courage to subdue,
Venomous, hostile thoughts of his kin.
He bade her adieu, with sombre mind,
And put her ruefully to bitter oblivion,
Alas ! Now she is on a long meander,
Through strange paths, to strange destinations,
But as I behold her tread to reclusion,
My conscience inspires me to tell her -
'I trust you as I trust my mother,
Albeit, this whole world might denounce.'
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