Ganpat, the Grocer

By Vihaan Riju

I have not been in my old village in years, 

I left there when I was still a boy, but to me it still appears, 

As if I had been there yesterday, ambling in the dusty roads,

Under the swaying trees and amber sun, between the thatched abodes

One of things I remember from my happy youth there, 

Was past the pond and through the fields, in the lazy market square, 

A little shop tucked in the corner, selling grocery and other odds and ends, 

Owned by old Ganpat, with whom everyone was friends

He was an old fellow, with skin like wrinkled parchment and a beard that reached his waist, 

Which was greyed, and was not neat but all displaced 

But I remember his blue eyes much more, gravely glowing with wisdom and age, 

With this figure behind the counter, he seemed less a grocer and more a sage

A quaint little shop he had, small in area but brimming with all manner of things, 

Which could hardly fit in the shelves, and could be laid on the tables of kings, 

Packets and boxes and tins of anything you could possibly need, 

Arranged in neat little rows- very enticing indeed! 

My favourites were the sweet jars, lining the countertop 

Bursting with all sorts of toffees and chocolates, which I chewed nonstop 

I will never forget the innocent excitement as the ancient hand plunged into a jar, 

And placed a handful of sweets in my palm, with a wink that was boyish, as all old men are

Kindly was old Ganpat, with never a harsh word escaping him, 

Smiling and laughing was he, never stern or grim 

His stories of adventure and mystery outnumbered even his grocery stock, 

For which, rather than purchase, us boys would around him flock

I do not know what happened to him, or where he is now

Logic tells me he is dead, but to think this I will myself allow:

That if I were to return to my village, I would find there, just as I remember him, 

Leaning over his counter, and humming some or the other hymn

By Vihaan Riju