I wrote this poem more than a year back. My advice is if you read this poem, read it till last line.
Placing the signature with my Montegrappa
While writing a cheque to my expensive son,
Nostalgia and a travel fourty years back when I
Always gave my best to fill little piggy bank.
Still I remember it was shaped in smiling pink swine,
A narrow slit on its head so that every day,
I can stuff its stomach and rejoice and count.
How I used to count those glittering coins,
Before I would send them to safest place,
And mark one dot for every tens;
Dots those filled pages of my hand made diary.
My childhood, I know was not luxurious as my son has,
And I had to skip Costly Strawberries
So that my tiny piggy does not sleep hungry,
I would not eat those toffees and save;
And save pennies to hide in womb.
World of the piggy, trust me so mysterious,
I would pick it and guess weight inside,
And would shake it to listen the sound,
Heavier the sound; more coins gobbled,
And a curios smile would increase my eyes.
Counting on fingers counting days and dots,
I flipped through pages of tiny diary
Thirty one… thirty two… and a two bucks coin
Three hundred thirty two and I open
The chamber of secret - mysterious I told,
Trust me a complete three four nine.
“Was it God who always multiplied?”
Those faces of heads and tales or perhaps
My wooden trunk was blessed with some magic
No I can’t be wrong in marking dots nor at maths
In which I always excelled entire class
My childhood spent asking how God! How
How it happens?
And now when I am father of a son,
I murmur to myself,”Oh, daddy you!”
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