The blue sky

Forty-five or fifty years ago, he was crying in the cradle,
And some thirty years ago, he was an adult.
A hurried transformation
Untouched by the innocence of childhood,
Unscathed by the recklessness of adolescence.

Four or five weeks ago, he had a cardiac arrest,
And now, with one leg in the grave,
He dreams
Of exploring the ignored chapters
Of his lost years.

One of these days, a little after two in the afternoon,
He gets up from his bed and slowly walks the way to his son’s room,
A nine-year old rebel.
He opens the door, looks at the mess around,
And tries to make some sense of the bizarre posters stuck to the walls.
He winces as he picks up the cricket bat lying on the floor.
He grips the handle firmly and swings the bat wildly in the air.
At a distant space in time,
He could hear a cheering applause from the crowd.

 He clenches his fist with grit
And instinctively smiles to himself.
Some desperate tears escape from the corners of his eyes.
He experiences a strange feeling he never felt before: an absolute sense of freedom,
And delight in its purest form.
His spirit, as eager as a young bird on its first flight,
Rearing to explore the promising horizons.