A humming word

Our shame-shame parts had not yet developed So we bathed together My cousin brothers and me Every Sunday, right before Jungle Book  So that we are dressed to watch  Mowgli with his playmates Each of us had a swinging milk tooth And we wanted to get rid of it, oh so badly! The tap and bucket in my grandma’s home Were sturdy –  We hit our teeth to it Till our milk teeth fell off And we laughed, toothless Then we washed ourselves To watch Mowgli in his Chaddi

Mother is mum, mostly She speaks softly, smiles like a smitten cat She doesn’t say ‘I love you’ Some nights, she knits A finger sleeve Some evenings, she bakes Her thirty third attempt Some mornings, she crafts A bookmark She gifts and slips away To bake, knit, and craft some more

  Mountain is a shamiyana — The trees dance to the call of the birds that hum with the lilt of the wind the spectator sun, veiled by the clouds, shies away like a bride when the moon gallops with its band of stars   The sun blushes red the next morning    

 Love was a stalker when I was nine Chasing, pursuing incorrigibly, was fine   At eighteen, love was a whisper in the bakery Notes and letters and messages passed quietly   At twenty-five, love sought refuge in rebellion Amid dissent, love settled with two in a million   At thirty-six, love is an amendment and a gender discourse Political, Apolitical, it mends, blends and is deaf to signs of force                    

Amanda Stronza is a philanthropist who buries animals who lose lives by speeding cars on highways and other ways.  And she lost her pet dog, Matilda, recently. A few lines for Matilda. ** Dear Matilda, You’ve seen me bury dead squirrels  and run-over raccoons Windshield hit butterflies and  bobcats, passed too soon You’ve gingerly placed your prayers in your way  you did it with me, without me, each and every day!  Matilda, These wild flowers, today, carry your scent  I bury it with this rabbit, sweet and innocent. * Her website: https://www.amandastronza.com/ and the gallery of animal memorial. Source of pic: Amanda Stronza's website 

An old man sat at a coffee shop by a long table in Milwaukee. A bagel and a cup of coffee would keep him company.     Every Sunday, he’d occupy the same chair. He’d draw a stroke here. A stroke there.   Lakes from his memory. He’d sketch them, keenly.   One Sunday, I sat beside him I scribbled on my scribbling pad. And he nodded, lifting his hat.   Since then, we’d sit together every Sunday morning Drawing and writing, in silence, till evening And we’d head our own way. Only to meet the next Sunday.      

Mornings, when the city is dressed in sunshine, and people scamper -- holding on to steering wheels, or purses or briefcases, or yesterday. Amidst these blurry faces, is his smile as bright as the summer sun that enters balconies to water potted plants. headphones on, and bobbing his head to music, he hums and relishes every moment. Illustration: Raaga katta