1 min read

On some days I can’t 

recognise my father. 

It’s been through a

journey, our relationship.

He’s vigorous and reticent, 

and I’m a reckless laughter.

Talking has become an act 

of balancing, so we refrain.

His visits are like rituals.

Every August, unfailing.

Always finding and fixing

broken roofs, tainted glass.

We build sand castles too.

Only now, my father adds a 

fence to it and I smile at 

him and his silent gesture.

We both try cradling each other

to sleep, often singing lullabies.

Only, our songs are apologies

we can’t offer when we’re awake.

I’ve learnt ways to keep doing 

things completely unhurried.

So while I paint or write a verse,

there can be a town burning inside.

We are aware of our presence.

But nothing is said for we’re

alone together; until there’s a

discomfort that lingers.

This relationship is a barbed wire. 

Already bruised in different ways,

no one visits the other side.

Shruti Sinha, a 20-year old literature student, is keen on reading eagerly and writing profusely. When she is not making submissions, writing poetry, and buying plants, you can find her learning new languages. If you ever feel like discussing Van Gogh’s ‘The Starry Night’ or Emily Dickinson’s ‘They shut me up in prose’, you can find her @finite.difference on Instagram.

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