06/05/2026
The Genius of the Threadbare
(A Tribute to Achan, my father)
In a world that hoards the digital ghost,
Of likes and links and empty boast,
He taught us the genius of the deep—
To find the soul in what we do not keep.
He made a subject threadbare, bone and skin,
From balsa wings to the copper and tin.
He’d etch the board and build the sound,
Then leave it there, upon the ground.
He didn’t paint for fame or name,
Ten times Amma’s face—always the same.
Then, like the masters of old, he’d rise
To paint La Pieta on a four-foot size.
In a world of many, he stood apart,
Bringing us Pink Floyd deep into our heart.
He led us to Nature, to the wild and the free,
And taught us to love every bird and tree.
He showed us the classics, and how they endure,
With a taste that was vast, and a spirit so pure.
Where Ben-Hur’s chariots thunder by,
And Guru Dutt’s shadows haunt the eye.
He headed Research and inspired the young,
Then walked away with the song half-sung.
A child at heart, in game and in play,
Finding the joy in every new day.
He lived the words of Gibran’s prayer:
A bow made stable, a heart of air.
Knowing we come through him, but are not his—
That life’s long yearning is all there is.
He gave us his love, but left us our thoughts,
For the house of tomorrow cannot be bought.
Six years since the Archer sent him home,
Leaving us the infinite world to roam.
He taught us that to truly live,
Is to master the craft—and then to give.
Immerse yourself until you’re through,
Then move to the next, the strange, the new.
For the “excitement of life” is a fleeting spark,
Not a trophy kept within the dark.
