the South Asian admiration for snow is its incarnations,
such as a succession of dust that tumbles within a beam of light,
and the bed of cotton pods ripened at the seams,
or the drizzle of rain caught to hair that turns silver,
when it falls in a flitter like a pale bug of the forest
she held me upright on the grass,
at our feet lay remains of white flowers, raat ki raani
we swayed, or danced and i told her she reminded me of the moon.
caress, his wrinkled finger along the lobe of her ear,
earrings dangling, lingering silver.
silvered moon, crescent and virtually extinct,
extinction of her perfume as they dance,
dancing, my mother in the lead.
leading father, his fingers round the fabric, feel its texture at her waist
wasted. wasted at the thought of her,
her hair which parted, bridge a space on her furrowed forehead,
forehead to kiss.
kiss her again,
against a pretence of obligation.
obliged to love her and be,
be her lover, though his love for her changed.
from a hint of petrichor on its collision with the dirt,
to a mumble in the streets and a damp sidewalk,
i conjure your memory.
i imagine you, only a boy enslaved in the body of a man, as he guides his niece down a memory,
hauntingly familiar.in awe of unscathed innocence, gently observant of its course.
a strange joy conceives a moment, ignorant of consequence,
soiled sandals didn’t spare her toes, the tips of her pants bathed in rain,
all five of her fingers manage their way round one of yours.
you yearn for the youth age deceived you was absent,
there was a wisdom laced in her crooked vocabulary,
you loved her a little more,
when you saw yourself in her blithe.
she told me i look beautiful when i cry.
flushed cheeks of velvet and puddled eyelids,
did i really look beautiful mother?
at my feet saw an orbit of tears pooled beyond a horizon,
the pale waters distorted, but i finally looked like you.
to watch my reflection in the foreign symmetry of your face,
left me bewildered.
did you, too, find a twisted solace in quiet cries?
mother, how don’t you see that beauty you found in my sunken eyes,
to see it for you?
the gutted feeling of seeing the strongest person you know refuse to surrender to her pain, when she too, taught you the beauty of release. a concept introduced to me by my father talks about viewing conflict with people as mirrors, as reflections.
her toes tease the pull my feet lay idle on.
i am drawn by almond clefts that claim eyes,
saw a scene i can’t recall.
i want to touch her, is she soft?
or are her fingertips calloused with the earth’s dirt she doesn’t bother shed?
i crouch to her level, fumbling for a dialogue that can gauge her attention,
undivided at the skies instead.
i wonder then perhaps, does she find me beautiful?
she doesn’t hold a gaze to my face,
maybe I am unimpressive then
my hand grapples a weight latched to my chest,
but is catching cloth that clings to trembling skin.
i am terrified of you,
till dainty fingers lace themselves around mine.
i want to hold you,
i want you to like me,
we can’t.
then i wake and she’s gone,
left only at the pit of my chest like residual tar,
because she wasn’t meant to be here.
she was destined for the beautiful part of a daydream,
and me as heavy bones to evolve farther apart from her.
this poem captures a moment in a dream where i met my younger self. i found that i admired her but she was indifferent toward me. the more we gained proximity and interaction, the more detached she became. it is a piece of admiration toward what i used to be and the inability to recognise what i have become today.