My Grandfather

My grandfather used to sit
On a simple wooden chair
Outside his small room
In a dusty, ancient Calcutta tenement building.

Broken sunbeams lay on the ground, brilliant.
Interrupted patchwork of shadow and light in the open plaza,
Within enclosed cement and tile
umber and gold, muted.

My Dadu was a proud man
Era of Indian Independence in his blood
Freedom and veracious ideals.
He filled his chair with girth and authority.

With cane in hand and ominous presence
He would sit toothless
Central
Brooding
Observing.

Remember I a small child, running down the long dark crooked alley
That wove inside and through other crumbling buildings
Shifting and cutting angles. Abrupt.
Then unexpectedly huge
His dominion.

And I would stop in my tracks
and shuffle past. Quiet. From a different world, a different generation.
Afraid again to say
“Dadu, I love you.”

Uncontrolled my tears
The last time we said “Goodbye”.
In his perfect Oxford English
He said I would never see him again.

I wonder now what he used to think…
Perhaps about his youth
And how success had shown him
Her generous hand for a few brief years
And how in a game of karmic trickery
She closed her bright eyes,
Turning away from him
Leaving only the reminder of golden light
Intangible at his feet.