She smelt, of them, they smelt, of her
In a, little, jute sack, many orbs, of wood
In a corner, hid them, my father’s mother
Who’s a, pilgrim of death, we all, understood!
“Dispose off, these shells, nay, shrapnels”
Was, my father’s, lavish, fear, for me
“They don’t hurt, as bad, as he yells, …”
Begrudged granny, her son’s, ‘apathy’!
What was wrong, with her, I’d, never know
“Trifling”, how could, a mother, ever be
“A woe, I, owe!”, was a strange, vow, though
What changes, time, kinships, and man’s alchemy!
One day, she left us, all alone
In one, of our, saddest farewells
Papa, piled them up, o’er, her tombstone
My Grandma’s, Scattered, Walnut Shells!
© 2022 Vikas Chandra