When he was growing up, T’was the era of the sixties

The culture of soulful Jazz, the twin-colored pictures

He was raised not in a household, but in an ‘army camp’

Where he was mindful of his duty and made to vie for a Govt. stamp.

He wrought incessantly, a genius of hard work

Receiving his comeuppance, with a beautiful wife as a perk.

So dignified was his character, perhaps a bit too noble

Expecting exquisiteness from even family, or you were inexplicably ignoble.

When his children became men and women themselves

He was proud of their impeccable mannerisms

Oblivious that his harshness

Was nearly a cause of aneurisms.

There he sat in his rocking chair,

a decade without his children to adhere

Proud as a peacock,

he couldn’t bring himself to care

Unbeknownst to both parent and child, their eyes drooped with unshed tears.

Now on his deathbed I hereby stand

From where I inherited my baleful pride, I finally understand.

Never once naked, never hungry, never shivered in chilly winds or rain

My father emphatically did his duty, my childish hope of reconciliation now shattered in vain.

I look at my daughter beside me, and gaze at the babe in my arms

Though my fame is sagged today, I heartily welcome this glorious chance.

To do my duty not with strictness, but with undertanding and love rather,

So that one day my dad smiles from heaven listening to his grandchildren

proclaiming-“I’m proud of you, father!”

Awiral Grover