Jacked up in a polythene cover
My first volume of poetry lies on the table.
Taking it into his hands
Running his thumb over its edges,
Sniffing at the new pages and the undried ink,
My boy asked me:
“Have you done it all alone Papa?”
I nodded my head in assent,
Airing a sense of achievement.
‘Impossible’- he said and ran away
Without looking back.
I laughed at his innocence.
I looked at my Caesarian issue
With maternal pleasure.
It reminded me of the day
When my mother handed me my son,
decked up in clothes, for the first time,
saying that he resembled my wife.
The book appeared to me
In a different light altogether.