Oh Dear Twelve Year Old, Do Not Grow Old

Oh Dear me,

Small, young and naive
to you, whom the girls call cute
and teachers pat on the cheeks
look around-
there's immense joy, and,
freedom that you have
with just one routine:
between your games and sleep
school, home and school again.

Your mom dresses you, combs you
and you say it hurts on the head.
She packs your bag and keeps your tiffen
in a little steel box that you hate.
She calls you by that home name, and you keep hushing her in shame
Your sister, at school, she teases you
in front of her friends
and back home her melodramas
for which you're always punished.
And, your lean self, of which your cousins
tease you.

There is your father's bike,
that you so desparately want to ride
and that car, of which,
you just tap the horn and play around
with the steering.
You see with curiosity, how they drive it
and think when you too would do the same.

Then there is your Grandma,
who tells you stories and things
that your parents never tell.
And that old Grandpa,
who leans on a stick and walks slow
but rewards you with candies and
pocket-money.
Tell me, oh little angel,
do you have a better friend than him?
Who shares your secrets
and saves you from your father's warth
who when goes to your PTM
the teachers dare say that you're spoilt.

Do not grow up,
Oh! You twelve year old.
Life is a rat trap,
a maze, that goes round and round
with swirls that pull you down.
Nothing, but false hope
a cruel bait
that feeds on greed
and insubstantial happiness.

The day you grow up,
big, tall, and,
fat beyond that childhood insult
you'd miss
the comb that spiked your head,
that firm grip of your mother
that held you by the jaw.

In a far off city,
one day...
you'll miss that steel tiffen
that had your mother's cooked meal.
Your ears would long to hear
that teaseful name, but,
seldom would someone say.
Someday in your free hour,
at office or at home
you'll think of your sister,
who's wedded by now
and you would miss,
say, whatever you can possibly think of having done together.

You'd no doubt be riding bikes and cars,
but only between office and home,
struck annoingly between jams and red-lights.
Some absurd FM will replace your old Granny.
And, there would be no further need of pocket money
but Grandpa would be missed.

There will be a new girlfriend,
but all friends lost
a lot of luxury
but all comforts gone.
A youth forever desired,
but the childhood so badly gone.
Long vacations in different states
but the hometome left behind.

There will be, a lot of things
but, a missing self.

Oh dear twelve year old,
do not grow old.