The dews of floating memories lie threadbare.
A spoonful, a handful , a palm full of pixie dust,
Can it keep me afloat?
The "I" in me has been struggling to breathe,
It's been constantly shown what it disbelieves.
"Is it so easy to undo memories?", A prudent laughter jerks me out of my photo album.
A feeble breath escapes forming loops of realisations,
The miniscule laughter of a gap toothed girl stares at me ,
Her eyes seem to question what have you made out of yourself!
I am not alive to undo what has been a part of me.
I might have outgrown my sleeves, but haven't yet outgrown what has always been me.
The lessons that grandpa vowed by still run in my veins,
The aroma of grandma's dishes still linger in the dishes I cook,
The cracking sound of my rusty cycle comes alive as I run my finger on my scarred ankle.
The warmth of maa's caresses still keep the old knitted muffler warm.
This is what makes me sans who I pretend to be.
The Shiulis of my garden has taught me this,
There's an October in each of us,
That teaches us acceptance.
Part of us would suffer the test of time, yet a vibrant part would always be drenched in the sweet fragrance of memories.
Autumn has bid it's opulence, the harsh winter would be soon unleashing it's wrath
October, benign as always is preparing us to be warm
To not undo but to hold on,
To hold on to those moments which are beautiful
To hold onto people who keep you at ease
To hold on to those things which make me more me and less you
A detour, as I see it.
I am the eldest grandchild in my family. And being the eldest, I was pampered a great deal by my grandparents. My aama (grandma) and baa (grandpa) always shielded me from every possible dangers including thrashings from maa. I have pleasant memories of evening story sessions as grandpa took me to bed. Aama would oil my hair and tie pony tails which resembled coconut trees that I used to draw. Sundays meant elaborate sessions with my grandparents. Baa would trim my nails, aama would fondle me to sleep. Their bed room was literally my playing room, my story book reading room, my painting room and what not. With time, as I grew, I got a room of my own but their room was still my favourite one. When I left for hostel, I missed them more than I missed my parents. It was in the year 2014, I had come home after my exams when aama received a pressure stroke . She couldn't make it. I had spent a month as he lay sick on her bed. All of a sudden, there was a role reversal. I could
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