Saturday, January 25, 2014

Those winter sundays

It is winter here, and already Sunday in the old country.

Nothing special, you might think.

There is something special.

My father's birthday.

One of his three birthdays.

Yes, you read that right.  Father has logical reasons to celebrate his birthday three times every year.

Why three birthdays?

He was born on the 26th.  But, perhaps the clerk at the school that he attended mistakenly recorded 28 instead of 26.  Given that back then the school records were the de facto documents for such data, well, all the official papers ever since his elementary school days have the 28th as the date of birth.

So, that is two birthdays. The third?

The desi readers of this blog know the answer, while those from my adopted country will wonder what tricks we people were/are up to.  The third one is based on the traditional lunar calendar, and I have no idea when that comes up.

You might then wonder why the title of the post is not something like "happy birthday, appa."  Well, I stole the title. From a poem. You will see why.

Those Winter Sundays
Robert Hayden
Sundays too my father got up early 
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold, 
then with cracked hands that ached 
from labor in the weekday weather made 
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him. 

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking. 
When the rooms were warm, he'd call, 
and slowly I would rise and dress, 
fearing the chronic angers of that house, 

Speaking indifferently to him, 
who had driven out the cold 
and polished my good shoes as well. 
What did I know, what did I know 
of love's austere and lonely offices?

2 comments:

Ramesh said...

Wonderful poem ; never knew you were a poetry buff. The gems that you dig up ....

Nice that your father was born on Republic Day - Especially since he was born before the even happened. Wonder how he felt on that day way back in 1950. Perhaps not very different , as birthdays weren't "celebrated" back then.

OK - continuing on from the last post

Rain, Rain, hasten to Eugene, pray
They love their skies all dark and grey,
Wonder of wonders, you actually may
Cheer up our good Sriram Khé


Sriram Khé said...

As you noted, birthdays--especially the "English" ones--weren't "celebrated" back then ...
Appa, like pretty much everybody in his generation, was excited to be a part of the new and independent India. Which is all the more why he is very unhappy with the politics and the politicians of the last several years ...

I am not a poetry buff by any means. But, yes, there are poems that appeal to me. I wish I were younger so that I can memorize them; but, middle age means that I am less able to remember anything verbatim. I am always amazed at the stage actors, the older ones, who never mess up their lines.

I am sure the rain gods heard you--the forecast is that we will soon have some sprinkles ;)