Spare A Thought, Say A Prayer

 As August does into September meld,

Goodbye parties and last-minute shopping sprees are held.

Be sure that much in advance you have booked your ticket,

Else your university will start, and you will be on sticky wicket.

With much excitement, subjects for the new academic year are chosen,

But spare a thought for those students, who, in time are frozen.

My Facebook feed is filled with pictures of the 'First Day',

To all these dear students, my best regards I do pay.

But pause a while, spare a thought for those parents too,

Whose children departed and their souls to heaven flew.

No bags are packed, no flights booked, excitement does not reign.

Just heavy hearts, of grandparents, parents and siblings, full of pain.

In those houses, that particular child will never graduate,

No cap or gown or degree, for him or her await. 

Call it God's will or call it Fate,

Every such student's absence on my heart does grate.

So, in the midst of your own excitement and joy,

Spare a thought for that particular girl or boy.

 Even better, say a deeply heartfelt prayer, 

Around parental grief, it will become a protective layer.

The Old Order Falls

 The Old Order Falls.

Collapses, crumbles, gives rise to the New.
The last bastions, (and we, sadly, have a bird's eye view),
Seem to totter on their wrinkled and quivery legs,
Before they give up, of their lives, the last dregs.

They had watched over us, self appointed guardians humble,
When we as toddlers, took a tumble.
And they were just shooting the breeze,
When we, as children, scrambled up and down various trees.
At a later time, they watched us like a 'hooded hawk',
At our shortening hemlines, they would often gawk!

They witnessed our first crushes ,
And, of our youth, the first flushes,
In those days, we had fewer words and more blushes.
Unlike Gen Z, who, on the 'Gram' gushes.

As teens, we acted in plays at society functions and sang,
Decorated pandals, danced, gave speeches with a tang!
They encouraged us, feted and felicitated us, even fed us,
Gave us a sense of self worth, sweetly, of us, made a fuss.

And much like their ordinary bungalows and bowers,

Born of their blood, sweat, toil and tears,

Are now being bull-dozed into oblivion,

So also, this old upright order faces Armageddon.

Swanky buildings, thinly disguised as 'a bungalow',

Take up the maximum square footage allowed,

Who needs trees around a home, who needs Nature's rules followed,

When ritzy, fuel guzzling monsters, make a better show?

I try to hold on, with a tear in my eye. Oh, saudade!

To those nostalgic moments of my childhood and teenage,

But every time the news of the death of a childhood father/ mother figure, 

Is shared by my  mother,

I feel 'The Old Order Falls.'

Collapses, crumbles, as it is meant to, as it must.

But for me, yet another precious memory turns to dust,

As yet another 'old school' person's soul in heaven does rest.
One mustn't forget, each one of us, on earth, is a mere guest. 

                                                    They once proudly walked these lanes.

         

       Picture Credits: My Dad, late Col. Ajay Ukidve, clicked on a rainy Monsoon Day in Pune.