By Karan Singla
With the first whispers of holidays, our plans took flight,
No journeys far, no places grand—just Nani’s world in sight.
Cousins gathered, laughter soared, in games that never tire,
While mothers busied, freed of care, watched their children’s fire.
Nani’s hands, a world of warmth, with gifts and treats galore,
New clothes to wear, sweets to share, and love that asked for more.
She’d smile and ask, with gentle pride, “Aur, kis class mein ho tum?”
A simple joy, a treasure rare, in her embrace we'd bloom.
The last time there, I held my camera, and asked her for a pose,
She turned away, a blush unveiled, like a shy young rose.
In that picture—eyes cast low, a lifetime’s grace preserved,
A memory carved in stillness, her beauty undeserved.
“Oh, I’ll show my friends,” she beamed, with pride so bright and true,
“My city-born grandson clicked me”—her words like morning dew.
In her joy, I saw my roots, in her eyes, my heart found home,
A world I’d keep within me, wherever I may roam.