Memories of Home

THE MEMORIES

Old -- almost historical bricks 
of the house built before Partition, 
decaying wooden chaukath, deewal*,
light on blue home walls, 
iron rod terrace, 
and steep stairs to the roof --
Few memories my eyes gather from old pictures 
like a camel collects water in its hump. 
My five-year-old self sitting on Papa’s lap next to Amma* and Ma,
old black and white TV playing in the background.
Papa’s white kurta, Amma’s pastel and Ma’s brown floral saree
and my red and white checkered dress.
And smiles --
as if that was how we were all to live. 
Together forever.

*chaukhat – door step; deewal: walls
*Amma -- the poet calls her grandmother Amma.  

A KEEPSAKE

It is neatly folded, tucked to the farthest
stack of clothes in my almirah.
Your white chiffon saree --
black and white flowers speckled all over it.
I haven’t yet worn it, not even once and 
I have it for nearly twenty years. 

I remember the day 
you opened your trunk, 
the only worldly possession you had 
and said -- 
have something for yourself.

Did you somehow know Amma,
it was to be our last meeting?
With hesitation I fumbled
through your things till I saw 
this saree I had always liked. 

When you put it on, 
your tenderness would seep
into the texture of the fabric.
Its sheerness akin to the spark 
I noticed at times,
in your seldom happy eyes.  

Now sometimes I take it out,
touch the fabric,
rub it against my skin, 
and put it back inside. 
Afraid to wear this keepsake, 
lest it wither away with time.