I Called Him Baba

By Neeharika Mishra

Every day had the colours of innocence. 

“Did you have your dinner?” 

my Dad would ask, before my footsteps 

found their way to the room of my Baba. 

Books opened, stories widened. 

He took me into his arms, and 

words he recited out loud. 

“The best narrator!” I would shout. 

And in the leisure array of blackened night, 

horror movies I loved watching them. 

He would hold my hand, 

for I always feared the ghosts 

would come from their lands. 

In the courtyard, dipped in dusk and games, 

he was the umpire on our cricket ground. 

“Not out!” he giggled every time 

my Brother bowled the stumps. 

In the feet of morning, he would 

call out in his gentle voice, 

“Where is your school bag?” 

Perhaps the only thing my mind refused 

to carry on the daily road to school. 

I, in the back seat, Baba driving the car 

engine on, the sound I laughed to. 

He loved leaving me at school, 

a silent kind of care. 

He bought a few more minutes that way. 

And one day, his words ached. 

I was leaving for another town. 

He showed up, but not in the car. 

The engine someone else had started. 

Baba stood out there, 

Told me while words ached in his throat, 

“My skin has greeted wrinkles, 

and my eyes quite weak to wonder, 

Return in holidays. 

I see the vibrant world, through you. 

I cradle my stories, 

my hobby of reading through you. 

I love you, my little one.” 

“Baba, I too love you”, Said I. 

I asked my Mom,

“Will the new school have summer vacations?” 

She smiled a thousand sprinting woods. 

“Yes, and we shall visit again,” she said.

Weeks passed. Mom spoke to Dad on calls. 

From behind, my voice rose 

“How is Baba?” my inner child asked. 

“Great! But not an umpire anymore. 

And to the stories, no audience finds 

its way to Baba’s room.” 

“Let Baba hold the phone, Dad,” I said. 

And Baba would giggle and say, 

“Not out!” 

But a fine day arrived not like the others. 

I rang the phone. 

Nobody picked up the call. 

I expected the same giggle, the same words,

“Not out.” 

But my Mom teary eyed, 

a lump in her throat. I asked her, 

“What happened?” She said, 

“Your Baba greeted a star, dear, 

and the stars called him.” 

No words found their way to my mouth. 

But the narrator he must be now

narrating to the babies of those stars. 

Mom told me the stars called Baba. 

And the stars they’re the ones

I always chase, not only at night, 

but in the daytime too. 

But as I chase and chase, they move 

beyond my drenched eyes. 

Baba too must have chased the days. 

He must have waited for me to return 

in the summer vacations, 

To see the world through my eyes 

to love himself more. 

But his grey strands of hair had gathered 

the moon’s dust beyond the shack 

of books and stories. 

Now, I’ll wait for you, Baba, 

until dusk cradles the moon to emerge at night. 

And I know my footsteps will always find 

their way to the vast sky you always owned. 

I will chase, even if my knees tremble. 

And for you — I’ll even count the shooting stars. 

By Neeharika Mishra