The Old Man

The rain drenched Oak tree,

has a wooden bench under its boughs,

where a frail old man sits daily,

as the evening draws.

I see him everyday at five,

from the window of my room,

Trudging slowly uphill,

Be it the Fall or the Bloom!!

He sits on the bench alone till dark,

 which comes quickly on our hills,

Treading softly on the grass, 

Then he walks back where he dwells.

Who is he? I do not know,

though someone did tell me,

A 'gora Christian' he was, who had

rebelled against his family.

Fell in love with a Hindu,

 of the native Pahadi tribe,

Expelled from the Church,

 The day he took her as his wife.

Hand in hand, would they sit

Under that very old Oak tree,

Unconcerned how the world passed by,

Happy as they could be.

Then - Tragedy befell 

One chilly foggy night,

When Fever struck down his Love -

Death prevailed.... O Feeble Life!!

O how he had cried and mourned,

O What misery!! People say,

The parish priest had sent a note,

"NOW you can enter the church & pray."

That was sixty years ago, they say,

 and not a day since then he has missed,

When he would walk to the same Oak tree,

and of his departed wife , reminisced...

.
.
.
.
.

A fearsome storm had raged last night,

 and uprooted the ageing Oak tree,

Today my old man has not come,

I'm wondering where he could be!!

One day over!! Two days passed..

  Now a week has gone by,

I was certain he would come,

  - if only to see the tree & sigh!

I asked people in the bazaar, 

  and met this man, who did tell..

The old man had breathed his last,

 The night the Oak tree fell!!