A father and his daughter

This was a poem that I wrote in class XII on my father and the kind of relationship I share with him. I wondered if I could produce it here. So here it goes:

Me and my father are a perfect match,
Our arguments are worth hearing and a treat to watch.
We just need a topic that's all,
It does not matter whether it's big or small.

Whether India will see a new light,
Or it can be today's students' miserable plight.
The calories I burn is a regular issue,
In the end though none of us, but my mother needs a tissue.

I just love to argue with him,
So many topics in my mind regularly swim.
He too needs just a little hint,
In our debates, around the world we sprint.

Jules Verne took eighty days to go around the world,
Spare us just eighty seconds sir! Isn't it a record?
In the end, none of us wins,
Though the heat of our arguments burns people's skins.

In our home, you will never find a dove,
But spare that, we do each other love.
Without us, our home is barren, there's no laughter,
After all, he is my dad and I, his daughter.

Love you Dad. You are the first man in my life and there can be no other man who can take that place away from you. You will be the most important man in my life—forever. Come what may...

Perhaps...

A sun ray falls on the yellow petal of the flower and the dew drop so far resting on it, glistens with a new-found energy. He loved nature. It bestowed him with an enthusiasm for life, for its eccentricities and its playfulness. His muddled thoughts used to pave way to a peaceful and an uncluttered mind. His heart used to reach out to the dew drop, to kiss the yellow, sun-lit face of the flower.

The fact that a part of his life was gone never seemed to bother him. He looked forward to the next moment in the same way as a class topper looks forward to the next set of exams—to show off, to strut his stuff and to display to the world that he is the best, not through words but through actions.

And yet under this calm demeanour, there was a fear that lurked. It was not the fear of failure. It wasn’t the fear of death. It was the fear of unhappiness—an unhappiness that comes from disappointing those you love, an unhappiness that comes when you get disappointed with life. Perhaps, labelling the fear as that of unhappiness would be wrong. Perhaps, unhappiness should be substituted with disappointment.

Perhaps, life cannot be as simple as a dew drop’s life as much as he and we may want it to be.