“He was your great grandfather,”
My grandmother said matter-of-factly.
I took a second look at the photograph
Among the many scattered around me.

I looked at the dark-skinned old man
Dressed in a white turban and dhoti.
“He was a farmer,” my grandma went on,
“And he was an expert with the sarangi.”

“Yes, that’s correct,” my father added.
“As a child, I used to sit on his shoulders
And listen to the melodies he played.”
I was intrigued by the man in the picture.

The ancient photo was black and white.
Even then, I could see it was very sunny.
So many questions arose in my mind
About this stranger from my family.

What was he like? He seemed nice.
What was a sarangi? I wanted to listen.
What did he grow in the fields? Rice?
My curiosity piqued in that instant.

“Put it back carefully,” my grandma said,
As I returned it into the old red album.
But, just before she turned to a new page,
I looked at my great grandfather again.

And I noticed his eyes in that picture.
He was gazing straight at me, it seemed.
I saw the affinity that was in his nature,
And, to date, I can also see that in me.