A Father’s Mind
CLOSE to two decades ago, a postal envelope came looking for me at my Mumbai home. The envelope was handed over to me by the postman, and curiosity made me open it in a jiffy. Out came the manuscript of a poem in Malayalam, a few lines penned in blue fountain ink. Amused, I looked for the address again, wondering if the postman delivered it at the wrong door. The address was indeed mine, and I tried to find out the name of poet who had sent it to me who had no inkling whatsoever as to what verse looked like! Worse, I couldn’t recognise the name that preferred to stay hidden in the form of a signature beneath the poem. After much investigation, I managed to decipher the name, and yes it was the retired gentleman, an acquaintance who my father had great regards for. I had learnt from my parents that he had this habit of writing poetry, and that he nursed a passion for words. The piece of paper with a smattering of chaste Malayalam finely crafted in blue fountain pen ink tran