The men can cook,

               when their stomachs growl;

and the one that perfectly knew their taste,

               has vanished into oblivion.

They will learn…

When the winter chill bites their toes,

               they will find their socks and put them on;

they will find the quilt too that you delicately packed last summer,

               and struggle to change the sheet too.

They will learn…

When their tears run dry,

               you are still in the photo frame;

as also in our frame of mind,

               inseparable, inextricable.

They will learn….

But who will learn on your behalf,

               the unfinished painting that peeps from the drawer;

or the story you passionately weaved for your first novel,

               that never saw light beyond the first draft? 

The urge to learn and sing your favourite song,

               or gracefully match the steps,

to your favourite Bihu song.

Are your dreams not real?

               to desire the same response;

As each perfectly pleated cloth,

               or the most sumptuous meal you cooked day after day?

I cannot now go back in time,

               to re-ignite your passion or support you;

I can just remind all of you there,

               to take out time and think through.

Nobody is indispensable,

               live your life to the brim;

balance responsibility with self-compassion,

               take centre stage before the lights dim.

Live for yourself as passionately,

               as you do for the ones you love;

Life itself will be proud of you,

               And you’ll smile from the heaven’s above.