At The Late Evening Of Life Poem by Aniruddha Pathak

Two sons, one lived across the continents,
One, visits her rarer than a Blue Moon—
With guilt-edged gifts to soothe rustled up guilt,
Or perhaps quid pro for their lack of time;
Another next-door close, and too far still,
Cared for money more than his mother,
Parents he felt a needless burden were,
And incongruent with spirit of time,
He's out to sell her memories-filled house,
And place her in care of an old age home.

Both too well knew what their mother wanted:
The one— far-off— hoped, she'd appreciate
That he can't be home more often than now,
Both felt, their compulsions were dyed in red.
Their visits soon dried up like a river
Tied up with dams and much irrigated,
Her own concerns remained confined to her,
And left to fend for her fate long fated,
She aged as never ere to wipe her tears.
Age is no child of time, but faulting years.

Time was, not in a far off horizon,
When children piled on mother's ample bed,
Evening sun sliding through slotted windows,
She a rare focal point of their young life—
Childish cares, complaints, concerns, bed-time tales,
But that seemed like ancient time too far gone,
No use she thought hankering for spent time,
Now reduced to fragile vague memories!
Soon an old age home was lined up for her.
Neighbouring souls shook heads. Poor she, what fate!

It was of little practical use still,
For, no one had the time to intervene.
She was even taken there for a feel,
Perhaps to make the future shock nigh lean;
An old inmate showed her expensive shawl
Her son had sent, which, as a parcel came,
With a telegram-like note that was all;
Her wrinkled fingers on shawl, but what shame!
As she tried hard her hurt feelings to hide,
Best gift is time, she seemed to say as cried.

Time was when rich was her fabric of life,
But on this late evening, life's rife with strife!
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Happenings | 08.03.2017 |