Rolled into a cylinder
In the last week of December,
Baba brought it home-
Colorful landscapes from Istanbul and Rome,
Resplendent beauties from Bollywood,
Or urbane beasts from Honda or Ford.
I snatched it from his startled hands
Flipped the pages over,
To be awed by the photographs
That graced the oily texture.
Ready to be up on the wall
To serve a year’s tenure,
To be marked all over in ink;
One last thing I did-
Was to quickly scan through
The bottom of the page
For the list of holidays!
Phones and computers now have it,
But, the art is long lost,
The red letters and Sundays now cost;
The excitement over the new calendar
And the hope it brought with it,
Is slowly getting bleaker.