Still burning

I never forget that day,

When I sneaked upstairs,

into my Grandfather’s room, and

and stole a five-rupee bill,

from his worn kurta’s secret pocket,

hung on the rusty nail, by the wooden pillar,

in the middle of the rainy night,

when everybody was asleep.

I returned home quietly,

After having spent all the money,

head down, both legs trembling with fear,

I never ran away.

Without a single word,

My Grandfather,

with a curved black moustache,

approached me.

He held me by my right ear and,

Walked with me all the way down,

To the sweet shop that,

sold sweets in jars,

where I spent all the money.

He held my right ear

so hard that,

In my late forties,

I can feel my right ear lobe,

still burning.