It is winter in the month of May here.
And the flowerets have dropped their sweaters
to souse their sweetness to the unsound season.
The wobbly armchair has been drooling out
age old anecdotes, out-of-order, since last May.
I have been called to watch the blue May flower
drowsing tenderly in my grandma’s upended palms.
I see it red. I wanted to say.
But whispered to her ear: “It’s beautifully blue.”
The red toy car of my nephew is her new aid.
And I was not allowed to touch it, nor my nephew.
When he cries for it, she cried more louder.
The toy car is all her then,
for its easier to calm down the five year old.
The ripened Malgovas in the backyard
has lost all its redolence, now a trifling thing
fallen uncared, open to chipmunks.
I have seen Sobha akka, the maid-of-all-work
wailing before grandma, cursing the God of ‘memory’.
She used to oil grandma’s long curly greyish hair,
which has passed from sight over a year now.
From a distant temple, the broken hymns
chanted by the true-blue saints glutted my ears,
shattered from inside, dissolved to the ache in blood.
In hopeless nights, out of all the pain,
I sings for her, the beauty of moon.
The moon, dribbling starry lights of laughter, as her.
The summer sun of grandma’s winter
goes wide every morning.
The massive rays waggles her armchair,
all-embracing smashed memory.
Image Credits: Pinterest