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| In memoriam: Arundhati Maitra (18.09.1938-12.04.2020) |
You’re twined with lissome rains, with moist monsoons,
the fragrance of mangoes
flaring in the wind
like your saree on the clothesline.
Afternoons
cloudy grey, a slow tapping
of imagined
heels on the stairs coming
up to the second
floor, unfolding hours a
palm leaf, a croton
splash of time, marble-veined, end without an end.
A moth shaped dark but the
wings closed, not open.
Between your staircase and the terminal
are many years of yellow cabs
and miles
of heartache, thumbing
through material,
keeping equidistant from tears
and smiles,
but now the ground’s shifted,
changed its axis.
I didn’t imagine it would
feel like this.
*'Mother and motherland are better than even Heaven.'
Your final stanza is so painfully true...
ReplyDeleteWhat a beautiful image of saree on a clothesline this give me. "Flaring" in lovely colors and patterns.
ReplyDeleteIs the portrait of your mother? If so, I am so sorry for your loss. So recent.
Hari OM
ReplyDeletesnehapoorn smrti... (sorry don't have Bengali...oh wait, "translate"!) শখের স্মৃতি
With love and understanding, YAM xx
Absolutely lovely - your mother, your poem
ReplyDeleteHi Nila - so so sorry to read of your loss ... those memories of 'mother-times' ... all part of our life, and then our loss ... but this is just beautiful. With so many thoughts - Hilary
ReplyDelete