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Everyone has a Box

Like it or not, it’s true
Just like the cold you catch every winter
Same as the thrill of a first kiss

My grandfather had one
Sitting for ages in the attic-
Found it during one spring-cleaning
Matured mahogany, polished like his skin
The lustre of the past faded with time

Old yellow photographs, a few buttons
Queen Victoria coins, unsmiling
Stamps of countries on his bucket list
Though bringing up a family like a tree
He could never venture out
And a detailed note of his first son’s wedding

There comes in my father
Elvis-cut hair, lopsided smile
Devilish good looks and innocent eyes
Ray-Ban glasses on his Adonis face
And a heart of pure gold –
He had a box too, tucked in a cabinet

Not mahogany, but top-notch plywood
Holding memories and stories as good

His mother’s faded photo-
When she was a girl with wide eyes
A half-smoked Dunhill, a withered rose
His medals from football tournaments
And my Ma’s first letter to him

Well, I too have a box- it’s called iCloud
Somewhere far away, faceless, cold
Without touch, without warmth
A sinister presence threatening 'delete'
Storing every detail of my life

Like a surreptitious stalker-
Who knows more about me than me
There is no lid, and you don’t need to open one

There is no mystery anymore
No more fairy tales
And the only boxes that matter these days
Are found six feet under

Buried below invading strangers
Who ate up your time
Tonnes of shots of places
You could not see trying to take those snaps
Reels after reels after reels of you
Who lived in a two-minute bubble

And forgot that a small box is enough
To hold a lifetime, lived and tasted

Picture design by Anumita Roy

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