submitted by Torsa Ghosal, Kolkata, India
Bruises embossed on her face, yet,
ancient pacific eyes
propel tumbling boats
at sunset through her bosom.
A look at her and one sigh… peace.
Peace, when I see her baking chapattis
Curtained by dancing smoke, sucking black coal
On winter mornings,
Peace, when I see her battered hands
And still know my grandma nourishes hope.
Lone divide between life and death
contained in her hour glass figure,
the jingle of bangles-anklets
since Himalayas
awakened, ticks
on clock tower. Touch
of her wet, warm palms and
one long word, everlastingly- … hush.
Silence, as I climb up to Eden secretly
Cradled in lullaby of her choking throat
Silence, that’s how my mother sees
Vernal dreams beyond her painful loads
Protected in the foliage of tropical forest,
plucking petals to deck my doll’s wedding gown
I painted the earth with my toes,
I would ride on the merry-go-round,
everyday and I knew well that was bliss.
Bliss, when we tasted berries from
Cloudland vineyards that were shielded from splinter
Bliss, as I thought the creepers of childhood would
Hold me in their fragile smiling grasps forever
Eventually I was, like my grandma and mom
Sucked into the roaring fires of clichéd roles,
Of fulfilling expectations, of being the one to care,
Enduring patiently-
Night after night, bitter fights under the quilt of happiness…
Where does this end? How will we ever transcend?
Hungry touches of monstrous silence…
Until on one such troubled night
A peaceful, blissful, silent whispering moment
Informed me, as I was staring at the blades of the fan,
Some girls of my home land have gathered
Shards of lives like ours and practiced to walk on them,
And by now must have reached beyond
Circular chapattis and songs of the flawed heaven…
