Prompt: A poem that seems to meander, full of little digressions, odd bits of information, but fundamentally, a poem that takes time.
It was a Wednesday as far as I can remember,
Back when Radio Ceylon took us to new shores every evening,
And white pants were in fashion,
And Ma still wore her salwar-kameez in the house -
Until Babaji retired to his room.
There used to be a cow shed at the back,
Where we learnt to milk the cows,
And jumped from one hay stack to another,
Until we were too giddy to stand.
Do you remember the neighbour’s son
Who sent me paper planes,
With proclamations of love and despair,
Scribbled in pre-teen haste,
Over the high compound walls?
(I still have them somewhere, I think)
Ah, I can finally see the patch behind it,
Where Maali Bhaiya taught us all there was to know -
About the intricate secret lives of trees and the birds and the bees.
It was there that we did our deed.
Under the lashing monsoon showers,
We ate the mangoes when no one was watching,
Put the seed deep into the ground.
As planned.
We ran back screaming and slipping in the mud,
Until Ma found us in our room,
Giggling and ruining her precious white sheets -
Now ten shades of brown.
Years later,
We returned to 12A, Judges Court Road,
Not quite how we remembered it,
But who were we to judge?
The moment I saw her,
Something shifted in me.
There she was,
A majestic reminder of the better days,
A summer blessing in all her glory,
Standing strong and full of fruit,
Waiting to nurture us all.
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