by M.Mohankumar
It was good that I made good my escape
at the hour I did. Another time, and I would have
missed the encounter that changed my life.
A wicked stepmother ruling the roost, torturing
a twelve-year-old at every turn, and a father
doting on his young wife, indifferent to his son.
My little cup of life brimmed with abject misery.
I prayed to the gods who, too, seemed indifferent.
The oppression sat on me, heavy like an incubus.
Salvation lay in running away. One morning,
I rose early, emptied my father’s near-empty purse
and slunk away to the railway station, there to take
a train and let it disgorge me where it would,
where I would seek and find and face my future.
A train came lumbering in. Then I saw him,
a frail, old man, threading his way through
the crowd, struggling with his briefcase.
I went up to him and asked, ‘May I help you, sir?’
I took the briefcase, helped him on to the train,
then to his seat in the empty compartment.
‘Why are you so sad, my boy?’ he asked,
his voice soft, his eyes full of compassion.
All my reserve broke down in his presence.
Words poured out of my heart. When I stopped,
he asked, ‘Would you like to come with me?’
Years have passed, years of watching and learning
from this bachelor-poet. I was his Man Friday;
I followed him like a shadow. He has been
many things to me: father, mentor, role model.
And now he says I am to inherit his properties.
Sounds like a fairy tale? Yes, it is − at least so far.
