— By Vidya
Fields, home, and family dear,
He tended all through many a year.
Now past eighty, strong in will,
He lives in the village, active still.
He knows that doom may strike one day,
That life can vanish without delay.
Yet plans for years still fill his mind,
Hope refuses to stay behind.
He feels as though he’ll always live,
With strength that time can never sieve.
His senses sharp, his spirit bright,
He dreams far into future’s light.
Even now, in a booming call,
He summons the farmhands, one and all.
Wherever they are, they rush with speed,
Answering Grandpa’s every need.
Each monsoon, when the rains are through,
He repairs the thatched roof anew.
He dreams the mud-floored kitchen one day
Will become cemented, come what may.
Every day some task must start;
Nothing escapes his watchful heart.
He keeps an eye on every chore,
Leaving nothing to ignore.
Berry, bael, guava, papaya—
He guards them with anxious care.
“That Suthni’s boy’s a clever thief;
He’ll steal the fruit if none beware.”
“Every fruit must be preserved,
Sold for money well deserved.
They’re all my treasured wealth,” says he,
“Don’t let a greedy eye them see.”
As keeper of the orchard’s yield,
He watches every tree and field.
Selling sacks of fruit with pride,
Counting earnings by his side.
Children throw stones from afar,
He answers with words that travel far.
In anger, he blesses—or perhaps condemns—
Their seven generations with his whims.
People laugh and gently say,
“Grandpa, now you’ve ripened with age.
No one knows when ripe fruits fall;
Why invite fresh risks at all?”
Grandpa smiles, “Listen, my son,
Your words are true—but not the only one.
Even an unripe mango may descend
When Time decides that life must end.”
“So long as life remains with me,
I’ll never leave my worldly duty.
I’ll guard my home and all I own,
No matter what the people drone.”
— Vidya
vidus 
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