In a matte finished old snapshot,
A khaki clad youngster stands in my memory slot.
Curiosity reigned in me as a child.
What kind of a person he must have been?
Kindly, arrogant, innocent, timid or raging wild.
An enigma, a calmness in the photo, I have seen.
Heard tales about this war hero,
He was neither a General Franko nor an Emperor Nero.
But a young zealot,
Who braved the enemy’s bullet!
The deadly war came to an end,
A heavy price, paid he with no amends,
Sickness and an early death,
His offspring were to scathe.
A lovely painter was he in making,
A Red Indian was his remnant musing.
Affectionately called as Baba,
He was my father’s Papa.
Never seen him in my life,
My grand dad remains in my heart safe!
(Written in memory of my paternal grandfather, Edward Roy Shadrach)
