Subhankar Das, 7/11

Ma

Ma did not have a dressing table. Maybe she liked her defective hand
mirror’s self that emanated from the tired dusk like light like a drop
of love. Running behind a dragon fly, crossing over again and again a
dilapidated brick wall, an experience of a wet and sordid world like
an age old breathing marked self imprints on my breast pocket. It
resembled a crumpled winter afternoon’s tidbit made of tamarind, salt
and chilly that left forever its tangy taste on my tongue. The dragon
fly wasn’t named in those days. Then it never occurred to me that it’s
a statutory to give a name to everything, it’s a must; as I did not
know then the meaning of a dressing table or anything about its dazzle
and cries.

It is said, my hair resembles my mother. Standing before the dressing
table mirror I look at my ruffled hair and search for my mother in the
long flowing locks. I don’t go to the hairdresser anymore. I have
preserved the pale ribbon, a tip of which she held in her teeth to tie
her hair and the memories of those evenings in a box, so that ants do
not eat it up.

Be careful, son
Take care, my son
Stay at peace, my son

I take care and I stay wrong. In outmost care whom would I give those
fountain-cherished days, to take care of? Who will try and understand
the smell of the colorless withered ribbon.

Forget about me; just ponder over the closeness of the two bodies.
Consider those poses and reflexes – the falsity too.
Feel the touch of the soft feet. Just feel the touch of the fingertips
on the burning forehead. Without applied color you and empty and a
zero.

But I saw the color that oozed out of her face.
I knew she was the doe, who wanted to go beyond the violence of the air,
leaving a single earthen lamp burning in the deserted hall.

Promote. Poetry.
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