The old man twitched his brow,
Blasting music, jarring his ears,
Endurance threatened, he rose from his armchair,
Dragging weary limbs, he staggered away.
His grandson in cargo jeans,
Gyrated and swivelled to the jazz,
Drumming beats drove him crazy,
His waist swayed in rollicking jig.
To ease his growing annoyance,
Withdrew the oldster to his solitary space,
His eyes, searching for his betel box,
Tucked away under his grubby cot.
Groping in dark, he looked high and low,
And in every nook of his dingy room,
His shocking gaze soon espied,
His betel box freshly polished.
A flash of terror beat across his soul,
No more value than an antique piece!
His betel box – made a show piece.
What would he be – a shock piece?
or a mock piece? !
The old man closed his eyes,
His hands folded in ardent prayer.
His lips parted feebly in a whisper,
“Hare Ram! Hare Krishna….
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.