Dadiā€™s Garden

I wanna go back šŸ˜­. I spent the first six years of my life here. This specific window led to my grandmotherā€™s tiny garden. Every once in a while she would have it opened to tend to the plants. We both would stand on this side of the window watching the plants being watered or the guavas being picked from the guava tree. Thank you ammu for opening this gate for me that day. The rain, the atmosphere, and the vehicles on the street both heightened my emotions and brought back many beautiful memories. I am going to cherish this moment forever. And thank you for keeping dadiā€™s garden flourishing all throughout the years ā¤ļøā¤ļø, even though it has changed quite a bit…. the jackfruit tree has gotten smaller and the guava tree is no more. Even in dadiā€™s absence, I feel her presence every time Iā€™m here šŸ˜Œ.

An Invitation

I wrote this poem in two versions because when IĀ originally completedĀ this piece, I had so many different things going on in it.Ā InĀ version 1, I am frustrated and in the process of calming down. In version 2, IĀ am calm and more observant. I did not want to combine the two versions together to make one poem because I find that each version by itself Ā both conveys and isolates my emotions than that of the other.But at the same time, these two versions complement each other as well which helps me to provide aĀ larger picture.

an invitation
(Version 1)

The wind calls for me.
Its soothing and gentle touch
Beckons me to come and listen to
The cricket’s song,
Outside my bedroom window.
The nocturnal sky, midnight blue,
looks down at me,
Drowning out the sea that laps against my shore.
Blessed, I let go of all my worries, hopes, and dreams.
The white horse comes galloping
And I let myself be taken away.
Who am I?
I am no one,
No one in particular.
Being a no one is indeed a splendid thing.

(Version 2)

The wind calls for me
Through my bedroom window.
Its soothing and gentle touch
Beckons me
To come and listen to its sweet melody.
The nocturnal sky looks down at me
As I find solace in its heavenly vaults,
Midnight blue
and wisps of iron-grey,
Like a field of Kashful* singing
Under a moonless night.

*Kans Grass- a grass native to South Asia

A Windy Afternoon

The trees sway
As the wind grabs the tips of their fingers
And pulls them in her direction.
They hold their place,
Their fingers swaying in the air like tiny waves
lapping against muddied rocks.
The sparrows complain,
Against the bitterness of the wind.
Their wings collide against her tresses,
Preventing them from reaching their nest
and settling down.
But my eyes fall on our pigeons,
Sitting outside their coop,
It somehow makes me feel at peace.