The whole life, you were a loan-person;
your first television, and then all televisions,
your first air conditioner, and all air conditioners,
your first bike-ride with your beloved,
the first car in which your family
sat reclining to the soft upholstery,
your wife desiring a movie,
your children, ice cream—
were not to be without loans;
And with another loan
came your dream house where you sat
on the veranda, reading the newspaper
while the golden sun smiled at you,
and in the evening where you stood on the balcony,
sipping the last cup of the day’s tea,
looking at your lengthening shadow
slowly merging with the darkness outside.
Then, your children’s higher education,
their marriage— all had become possible
only with loans, and loans and then loans;
and every month, like a cut-purse,
they poked their tentacles into your pocket
from all around, emptying it beyond recovery.
And at last, when you retired,
somehow you could pay off
all the loans with your mandatory savings
and you are now free of all loans,
and free of all means of subsistence;
and your children already migrated
to more promising climates,
dealing in different currencies,
you start feeling:
only a letter or two changed;
even now you are a lone person.
***
Madras Courier originally ran as a broadsheet with a poetry section. It was a time when readers felt comfortable sharing glimpses of their lives through verse. If you have a poem you’d like to submit, do email us at [email protected].
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