A Decade

I’m twisting this pen in my two hands, there is a beam of sunlight on the notepad.

I’ve lived separately past decade, my old watch ticks in front.

There are birds chirping outside on the two trees, a child laughs in distance.

Do you remember how freshly cut grass smells like? I wonder if the thick rotis will taste the same way as they do in my dreams, with onions and red pepper. Only.

Mother’s palms caressing my back as I fall asleep in her lap; she narrates her life to her own mother. There are arguments, I cannot comprehend. The voices are too mellow. The hands coarse but reassuring. They smell of ghee.

I wake up to All India Radio on a cold winter morning, incense wafting in the air.