mother

sometimes,
you will look-up at the sky
wanting to undo
the knots
you made in her heart

the poet says,
from the time you leave the womb,
you walk the world
calling out
her name

Mamu

Your laughter
is a wind-chime
today

when the house
is noisy,
i assume you're alright

at home

my afternoons with mamu are fraught with sounds. buckets, bangles, utensils, punctuated by her cough. i seek so much in these afternoons. much of it is just escape- like it even exists. 

Saturdays with Mamu

I take Mamu for granted. I seem to think she'll always be young, beautiful and strong. But I look at her closely and it's not true. Mamu is ageing. Her hair has more gray than ever and is more wavy than my baby curls and her breasts are sagging swiftly- toward her navel.
My Saturdays with her have not happened for a while. Because I take her for granted. But I watch her today- around baajyaa-ajee, around Kanchu, I watch Kaaley follow her down the road. She forgets to remove the apron sometimes, after cooking. Mamu is ageing.