Thursday Poem by Jayashantha Jayawardhana

For Appachchi(Daddy)

“….I was a nuisance, tripping, falling,
Yapping always. But today
It is my father keeps stumbling
Behind me, and will not go away….”
Seamus Heaney-Follower

Thursdays I`ve always been in love with. Years ago,
While schooling, when I`d be waiting for the weekend,
Thursday was always delightful harbinger to Friday,
The last day of the school week.

The attraction I felt for Thursday,
Over all the other days of the week had more delicate reasons:

Every Thursday, from the fair in the town, I`d expect
My father to bring those delicacies-jam buns, fried gram,
Peanuts, sweet buns, pan cake, wiskirigngna and the like;
My share of sweetmeat would await my return from school,
Dusty, stinking, soaked in sweat. After a brief face wash
At the well, and changed into a pair of shorts, I`d jump
On to my perch on the short wall overlooking the road
And begin munching my sweetmeat.

This was almost a ritual until I`d met
Her, who brought about a sea change in my hitherto simple life;
Thursdays became even sweeter then, as I`d be waiting for her
To return from the class, under the big Jam-fruit tree by
The abandoned garage, and be accompanying her back
To the town; I`d return home late in the evening to eat my share
Of the delicacies my father never forgot to bring us on his return,
From the fair in the town.

Afterwards there came a time, when I`d grudge the very arrival
Of Thursday, for we`d part on Thursday to meet back on Monday;
But, as usual, I`d wait for my father to come back from the fair
To masticate sweetmeat, lying on my bed, recounting the romantic
Moments of the past four days.

More recently, I`d eagerly wait for Thursday
To dawn to return home from the metropolis; arriving home late in the night,
I`d fish for my share of delicacies in the sugar bag hanging from a hook,
Above the big table and eat it while watching late-night news or
A soap opera.


Now full time at home, I still await the arrival of Thursday with the same
Childish eagerness to eat the sweetmeat, hoarded away in the bottom
Of his battered blue leather bag,
Hanging from the handle of his cycle.

Our home has all changed now,
Out of the six beds, only four are occupied now;
I`ve grown up; so has my brother.

It`s has all changed- the village, the school, the temple,
The boutique, the bus-halt and the cemetery ….

My father is now a sexagenarian,
Of late, I`ve grown more obedient than rebellious to him,
My fear of him has now turned to respect,
My affection for him to concern.