Like a promised summer I wrap Mas Eri Sador. Winter here is elusive, nostalgic even- like the Eri, it lives in mysterious boxes with smells and slimy worms. There are no songs here, red and green thread work, look back- sparsely sometimes, like wild flowers drenched in pale yellow city lights coarse and dull, clinging to ghostly moth balls. You look East, into the eyes of time- memory serves you two lonely legs, clutched stardust in some tiny fingers from a far above, quiet winter window sill- You become then the flying squirrel swinging silently, in unknown trees- into the Godhuli unrecognized. I pull the Sador a little tighter now, an unfamiliar warmth resides here- incidental perhaps. Coarse impalpable smells from memory find a chorus here- The Bulbul in pehas mustard field, does it still sing in tandem to the impatient twitch- Is the Yellow, still as Yellow, the afternoons thirsty on your skin? Another Bel had fallen, black seeds and soft yellow insides cry out. The Sador is lose near my elbows, its wrap always a little short. I pull at it, a promise of silk in some distant corner, rough and without a palpable delicacy, tears, only water- from a distant child. It is cold tonight. I laugh, from borrowed memories of neighbouring hills- the fireflies are shared, the evenings hastiness too. Ma laughs, from a reclusive wilderness in my thought. I draw the Eri a bit tighter, stay and laugh Ma- in todays distance and tomorrows warmth.. I pull the Eri a bit tighter. Again. © 2014 Maitreyee B Chowdhury
Posted on: Tue, 11 Nov 2014 16:36:50 +0000
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