Papa

Papa
(one of my oldest poems, written for my late father.)



Papa,
your slippers
were always too big for me.
They still don’t fit me
though now I wear your shirts
and your responsibilities.


I remember
my tiny hands
groping for yours
in the confusion
of a street crossing.
My hands have grown
and your have faded to the skies above.


The difficult Maths problems
you helped me with every night
are so easy now.
But life is heavier
than my school bag to school
and more noisome
than the dangling water tumbler.


I try to shave
and dab the aftershave
every morning
like you did.
But I’ll never be you.

Your slippers are too big.





chirag bangdel
(photograph, my father and me)