Ma drapes herself in white,
a saree edged with red;
Grandma’s crescent moon,
now a battle, outcome unknown.
Each morning, colour fades
as she reads Virginia Woolf;
the saree, then,
an almost shade of red.
Lights off, doors closed,
stick reeks of Plath’s pain.
Hands, hold on to bones,
narrating aching tales,
mistaken for sunflowers.
One spectator
peeps out, stealing glances;
eyes met,
and suddenly,
the city is hit with flood, of blood,
red intensifying
from the murder of rajnigandhas
tucked in buns;
arteries of dreams, cut open
in trusted silence of the night
crawls through the crowd,
to lead.
Good words sliced under candle light,
brushed under eyes;
rest weaved, a garland worn,
to embrace
what feels like home.
Compliments, she hangs,
from ears without a patch;
all fall, except one,
struggling for its native land.
Ma wears sankha pola
and payal—
their sound,
feminist poems
turned a muted tune
barging into restricted corners
in a household where her existence
is threatened to be inaudible.
Ma’s unconditional love,
a folktale—
bits and pieces
unearthed from old, torn,
cracked grown photographs;
bringing each close to themselves.
But in a world
uttering words, holy,
before misinterpreting each,
natives sold off to foreign corners—
the frail taught firmness;
firmness taught syllables, spellings and pronunciations.
A tongue so rich,
grew, only to unfold blasphemy.
Ma’s eyes observe
needs at the table— others’,
theirs so crowded with selfishness;
half of her reflection unseen.
She places her feet—
too far,
and a cry, along with her name,
chanted by faces and voices
almost forgotten;
too close,
and traditions along with disrespect
chanted by faces and voices
she wishes to forget.
And on some days,
estranged human voices
teach the word ‘safe’ to the house,
this lifetime not enough
for it to reach till ‘home’.
“Your mother is so beautiful and such a good woman,”
travels to my ears;
my name extends meaning—
shame, disrespect, devil incarnate;
not pride, but guilt,
reaches the finishing line.
