"These days you are not at home, Somu,
The rooms seem blackened like a dying dumb ghost,
dead and deaf like an ageless planet, you see.
The walls breathe silence,
like flowers which bend with the rain,
And, I twist and age with time like grapes of wrath.

Dear somu, I saw you in the photo, on Facebook dear boy,
To be honest you have become fat, like your mother when she was six,
Eat less cheese and burgers and cream, to fix these things,
Try veggies and salads to make you look thin.
I am storing up some money, this year,
To send you some sweets,
During puja, we had fried chicken and fish kebabs and rolls,
I made it as you liked it, a bit saucy with corn flour and chickpeas and all,
Next time when you come, I would make it again"
Read the letter,
Signed, Your grandma Mini.

Somu, as known as Somnath at his college, MIT to be honest you see.
A good student and an economist to be soon,
Somu is told to be the young Stiglitz,
Who gets a bit sentimental at certain gloomy afternoons.

But this letter came to him last Monday, at work,
He couldn't read it properly as being busy is the way to look more and a bit more, tough and sharp.
And as he came home today at nine,
Like whiskey and lemon and contradictions which never seem to rhyme-
came another Telephone at around ten,
Informing the youngster about the death of one of his grandparents.

"This is Baba, Your Mini is no more,
Today at six, we found her collapsed at and over the toilet floor,
Come home as soon as you can..."

And He was Still holding the letter,
helplessly within the shivering thrills of his cold and goofy tired hands.

It was 11 at night and he was reading the letter once more,
He was all but telling to himself-"this must be a dream to be sure..."
He was thinking about so many things at a pace,
And he felt about the world that he brought his Mini some disgrace.