we're standing in our balcony
waiting for papa’s return.
he's bringing home our very own new scooter.
the breeze moves shyly around our forms
as we watch sparrows snuggle deeper into tree shadows, singing bedtime lullabies
and hear peals of laughter from children playing downstairs.
when papa comes, he honks
and we rush out the door with our pooja thali.
in the parking, we anoint the scooter with a swastik, light a lamp,
and make the moment auspicious.
there's a box of mithai to sweeten the celebration
mayur takes saanjh for a little ride around our block.
high up in the sky, a new moon and a bright star
lighten the darkening sky
and make our evening even more special.
. . .
my days are simple.
making me feel,
quietly fulfilling me as i'm. doing what i do.
mopping floors, sunning plants,
making spice tea for my sick girl,
maneuvering our living around a tight budget,
seeping with unwritten poetry,
sewing from old things,
loosing myself in my own darkness,
and letting tears kindle me into light.
. . .
with phālguna, the indian year
is slowly coming to a close.
everyday i rise to the morning birds
incessantly rehearsing their spring song.
and the lone mango tree on the hill
turning red-brown with young leaves.
i sit this afternoon, making notes
for my new customised hindu calendar
even as the wind, moving between our curtains, begins to play a vasanta rāga.