Story of the Fine Lines on Her Face

She has her opinions about Russia and talks like she's friends with Putin.
She tells me what Manmohan Singh should have done to be a better prime minister.
She tends to her tulsi garden that feels so pure and smells so divine.
She'll give the best athletes a run for their medals with the way she runs around the house and the yard.
She says there's a secret to her energy, but doesn't shy away from spilling the beans.
She's ready to take the world after downing a big mug full of Complan.
She fluently recites verses in Sanskrit from her college speech.
The words flow effortlessly from her lips as if she's reading them out.
She can't start her day without the newspaper and has to read it all.
She has world history on her fingertips and shares it with the bubbling enthusiasm of a highschool kid.
No, she's not 20, nor is she 30.
She's my granny, who's all but 90.

When I think how I can't do a petty this or a pettier that,
She reminds me of her child-like curiosity and enthusiasm to do all of this and learn all of that.
We have decades between us.
Yet, I have so much to learn from her.
The soft skin on her face and the fine lines have a story to tell.
A story of her dedication to everything she's done and is still doing.
She doesn't crib for what she doesn't have or didn't do,
But shows off her tulsi garden with pride, smiling a toothless smile.
She inspires me in her own sweet way.
She's confident, she's happy.
For me she's a woman of substance.
She's my sweet little granny.