No, not because of George Orwell's classic
Which I've not yet read, by the way;
But the year is significant to me
As this was the year when
I was born (or so I am told)
On the seventh of June
At exactly
Yes, on the most sweltering of occasions
In an
I had weighed four kilograms (average is two plus three quarters)
And was fair,
Had hair
That was more brown than black (straight from Dr. Ganguly's official report)
Twenty five years since,
I've often wondered
When my mother (presumably) and I (naturally) were crying;
What was the rest of the world up to?
And I've actually found some answers....
For example, I know now, that somewhere in the hills in Mussourie
A girl had written to Ruskin Bond
After reading one of his short stories
And inquired if he really was the same little boy of Dehradun's Aubrey Bond
She had been Rusty's first crush....
Back in
A then unknown Jim Jarmusch was finishing up his first film
About two self-styled hipsters, one immigrant girl and no plot
It was made with donated film stock, borrowed money and amateur actors
Of course, the film would go on to win at
Just seven days ago, Indira Gandhi had been shot dead
By her own bodyguards
And this had led to a twentieth century witch-hunt,
Nation wide curfews, four thousand unnecessary deaths
Up to a couple of miles from my cradle....
In another part of the country,
While I was still to open my eyes;
Winnie was on the verge of walking.
She was exactly ten months and six days old
Even today, after a quarter of a century
She's learned to move on
No comments:
Post a Comment