What does home smell like?
Does it smell like the mango trees
Behind my childhood house?
Or like the plaster of Paris-
One of my first memories of my then new house?
Instead, does home smell like the silk Mekhela Saador*
Which Maa wears on rare occasions?
Is it the smell of gakhir sewai Dia** used to make
Or maybe her suji that was my favourite.
Does home smell like Jasmine?
For that is the shampoo my best friend uses.
Or if Home might also smell like my books,
Where I often run to in search of solitude.
I wonder if home smells
Like an amalgamation of all these smells
Or maybe none of them at all.
If it isn’t home that smells like them
But they smell like home?
*Mekhala Saador- An assamese attire.
**Dia- the name by which I used to call my grandmother.
Picture credits: Google images
a magical or medicinal potion.
I’m the mother’s kiss
On a bruised little knee more than Dettol ever could be.
I am the plate of plain rice and dal
For the hostel boy who returned home after more than a year.
I painted her face with rainbow hues
When her mother held her hand as she walked out of the closet.
The inkpot to the writer’s broken heart
I am their baby’s first cry after 7 years of trying.
Or a mere pencil in those tiny hands
Which held hot kettles and brooms for all their lives.
You see, I’m everywhere and nowhere
But next time you see me, use me a little and pass me on.
I can close my eyes
And almost imagine I have wings.
“And I am free falling”
My favourite song plays in my mind
9.8m/s^2; acceleration due to gravity
We learnt in Physics class.
Was my building so tall?
1…2…3… the seconds go on. (Or do they?)
I am free. Finally!
I feel nothing. Only the wind.
Free falling… I sing.
Maa can sing even better than me. Her face comes to my mind.
Oh no! Do I want this? Oh no!
STOP! I WANT TO STO
Source of featured image: tumblr
Quoted song: Free fallin by Tom Petty
It’s been such a long while
Since I felt the warm rays of the sun.
Been a long time since the last Summer.
Where has it gone, mother?
It’s too cold in here.
Snow is no more romantic or beautiful.
We are all bruised over by the Winter.
When will Summer come, mother?
Source: Google images
So many people have gone away
In search of the lost Summer.
But they never came back
Do you know what happened to them, mother?
Now I’m scared to search for Summer too
But how long am I supposed to sit around?
Doesn’t seem Winter will leave by itself,
What do you think, mother?
I don’t remember you.
Father says the Winter took you away too.
If I can bring Summer back,
Will you come back too, Mother?
I wrote this poem a few months ago in view of the present political scenario and the spread of terrorism across the world.
Her eyes had this inexplicable sadness
The kind of sadness that only eyes of an ancient soul could reflect.
She wrapped herself in aloofness like it was a Pashmina shawl.
Apologies danced around the tip of her tongue
like a ballerina on a stage,
It almost seemed like she was sorry for her existence.
People came to her and cried out their grief
Because oh how well she listened.
Her soul was starting to rust
Like someone’s first bicycle long forgotten in the rain.
But none could see her misery,
None realised despite that strong facade,
She needed a hand in helping her sew her torn heart back together.