Moon at Half Past Noon

I. Morning Assembly
Bare feet on sun-warmed stone I stood,
My socks threadbare, my shorts patched good.
The anthem rose, my voice rang clear –
No polished shoes could dull my cheer.

The PT master’s whistle shrill
Sent rows of us with uneven skill.
“Look at his shoes!” some seniors cried,
I grinned and marched with stubborn pride.

II. Classroom Days
Wooden benches, ink-stained hands,
Chalk dust swirling in sunbeam bands.
“Stop that chatter!” teacher warned,
As paper planes through quiet stormed.

Lunchbox held just simple fare –
Roti-dal beyond compare.
Friends would swap a sweet surprise,
While mischief danced in knowing eyes.

III. The Long Wait
All through fifth I watched them pass –
Those senior boys in pants of class.
Their confident stride, their pockets wide,
While I in shorts must bide, abide.

Each morning check – no growing spurt,
Each night I prayed in secret hurt:
“Just let me reach that magic height
Where boyish shorts become men’s right!”

IV. Streetlight Games
Schoolbell freed us to golden hours,
To jamun tree climbs and jasmine bowers.
Gilli-danda cracks! Marbles click!
Cricket with sticks for wickets quick.

Scraped knees earned with joyful cries,
Dirt-streaked shirts to mother’s sighs.
Yet in her eyes no true dismay –
Just love that mended every fray.

V. The Gift
Then one evening, lampglow’s kiss
Revealed my dream in mended bliss:
“Your cousin’s old, but good strong cloth…”
Her needle flashed, my hopes took growth.

Faded white with careful stitches,
Hem let down to fit my niches.
Not new, not sleek – but mine alone,
The sweetest gift my heart had known.

VI. First Day Strut
Morning came all bright and new,
The fabric swished – a grown-up cue!
I kicked a stone, I spun around,
The very air sang out the sound.

Bullies paused. The teacher smiled.
Seniors nodded – reconciled.
No longer small, no longer less,
Just me… and pants… and happiness.

VII. Years Now Gone
Now fancy suits hang in my room,
Yet still I smell that first day’s bloom.
Not rich in gold, but rich in schemes –
For childhood’s made of simple dreams.

The patched-up pants long turned to dust,
But mother’s love stays gold and just.
That scrappy boy still walks with me –
In every stride of memory.