In the lap of dusk where tea leaves steep,
He held my world in hands so deep
My maternal grandpa, not merely man,
But angel-wrought in mortal span.
His smile: a sanctum, heaven-spun,
No ego, no pride, no need to run.
A soul uncluttered, pure and wide,
Where simplicity chose to reside.
We roamed the market, betel leave in hand,
A duo stitched by love’s command.
Egg and toast from fingers fed,
While I, the slow cow, bowed my head.
He never tired, never sighed,
As I delayed each bite, tongue-tied.
Even when my breath betrayed,
He sealed the frost with lips of aid
Drawing the chill from my nose bound grief,
Like winter kissed by autumn’s leaf.
Fifteen piggy banks he gave
A kingdom coined, a love so brave.
My whims, his law; my joy, his creed,
He sowed affection, not just deed.
Weekends bloomed with his arrival,
Fast food feasts, love’s revival.
Though Mummy’s hands were novice then,
He dreamt of dishes, now and when.
But now he sleeps beneath the loam,
While I craft verses in his home.
He wished me health, gave Allah his breath,
And walked alone into his death.
His voice dissolved, his limbs grew still,
Yet blankets found me by his will.
A paralysed grace, a fading light,
Still shielding me through silent night.
He built his life from betrayal’s ash,
No venom, no revenge, no clash.
Educated hearts he raised with toil,
From fractured roots, he claimed his soil.
He died one day past my birth,
A cruel eclipse of joy and worth.
I was eight, too young to see
The depth of what he meant to me.
Now tears arrive like monsoon rain,
Each drop a relic of sweet pain.
I speak to ghosts in silent air,
And feel his wisdom everywhere.
He was not man, but mythic flame,
A lapborne star with no acclaim.
And though he’s gone, he walks beside
In every choice, in every tide.
So let this poem be his shrine,
A verse-bound grave, a sacred sign.
For angels wear no wings or crown
They feed you toast when you feel down.
A sacred tribute to a maternal grandfather whose love shaped a childhood and whose absence echoes through adulthood. This poem blends Bengali tenderness with mythic reverence, turning everyday gestures into eternal
grace. It’s not just grief—it’s legacy.
Who in your life felt like an angel without wings?
• What’s a memory of love that still warms you in silence?
• Which line in this poem reminded you of someone you’ve lost?
