The smell of spices
Ground on mortar by wooden pestle
Evokes so much of love...
Of granny...
Her frail figure...
Betel nut red lips
White saree with border thin black...
And pickled winter noon
By the radio 'Akashbani' tune...
And evening ritual of a drool
Closed eyes...counting beads...
Countless pennies kept as seeds
Of memories...old black n white turned sepia gray over-exposed in light...
Granny mine walking silent head slanted on the left side...
And then stories told in a feeble tone
Of princess lost in a forest lone...
White horse galloping fast with his mane
Dancing on the move...hoofs ploughing fields and plains...
The prince riding turbulence strong
His scabbard glistening like a heroic song...
And then sometimes soft trebled voice
Cajoling consoling wiping my eyes moist
With the end of her saree-smelling betel leaves...
Love dripping incessant through her porous sieve
Of heart so weak yet so full of care...
On her lap childhood brimmed with dreams fair...
Granny...o granny mine so gentle almost like a feather...you come without fail...
Specially in forms of trivial things...
A smell of pickle...old songs...and in fairyland dreams...
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Granny...my granny...
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