Impressions from pictures

I never saw my grandparents,
They were gone before I arrived,
Maternal and paternal—
Yet, I hear stories of my maternal grandfather—
Tall, handsome,
And my maternal grandmother—
A little shorter, sweet and gentle.

They say I resembled him as a child,
Born just 90 days after,
He with a sharp nose—
And I, perhaps, a reflection of that.

My 'nani'—grandmother—
A wonderful cook,
Vegetarian yet masterful with mutton dishes,
Soft-spoken, gentle—
With nimble, long fingers—
She was my mother's 'amma.'
I've seen their pictures—
Majestic, radiant—
Sitting like royalty on antique chairs,
The edges of her sari, covering her head,
Their presence together, shimmering with a divine sparkle.

Religious, devoted to Lord Rama—
Wearing cottons and muslin in summers,
And silks and tweeds in winter—
Their lives woven with faith and tradition.

My paternal grandfather—
With a princely moustache,
Turban wrapped around his head—
More regal than mere words could say,
Like a king from stories told.

And my paternal grandmother—
Delicate and fair—
With luminous green eyes,
Perhaps the source of those shining genes,
Blessing generations and more to come.

I never knew them face to face,
Only in faded photographs—
Faint impressions of a bygone era,
Yet, when I see grandparents around me,
I sense what a precious treasure they are.

But I don't truly miss mine,
For I never experienced their embrace.
Still, there's this subtle feeling—
A quiet affection—
For my maternal side,
Perhaps because I saw their portraits more often,
Or maybe, it's simply the will of the divine.