The Forgotten Photo Album

 

Tucked in trunks, or almirahs deep,

Where time and moths together sleep,

Lies not a jewel or golden prize—

But a photo album, soft with sighs.

 

A battered cover, a plastic sleeve,

Faded corners, a torn motif—

But open it once, and there you'll see,

A world that was, and still might be.

 

No filters, no endless scroll,

Limited clicks, all heart and soul.

Each snap taken with thought and care,

Moments captured rare and fair.

 

A birthday with balloons askew,

A cake half-eaten; faces old, yet new—

One can see in that frame, so much delight,

A one rupee chocolate made things right.

 

Your parents smiling wider than you,

When you blew candles and they sang ‘Happy birthday to you!’

Their joyful faces now look familiar,

They look like yours on your kids’ birthday this year!

 

A wedding dance you don’t recall,

In some cousin’s hall, or no hall at all.

You swayed in joy, no care, no plan—

Why don’t you dance now, grown-up man?

 

That little face on the garden swing—

Is it your child? Or once your thing?

You stare and squint—it blurs, it appears,

Time unfolds in albums, it reappears.

 

Sisters in matching frocks and sulky glares,

Forced smiles in twin-colored wears.

Yet now you laugh, and do the same,

To daughters who play the very game.

 

That confident shot on annual day,

Costume ready, with things to say.

If that child could shine with nervous grace,

Can’t you now, in your own space?

 

People you miss, people now gone,

Appear once more as you move on.

Neighbors, teachers, distant kin—

Alive in pages you’re tucked within.

 

Pick it up. Bring it home.

Let it speak when words are gone.

Not in phones or clouds or feeds—

But in albums that hold your childhood seeds.