Observations On My Grandmother
Published in
Aug 17, 2022
She tenderly sets aside
three copiously stuffed containers
and a jar of my favourite mango pickles.
And as it’s the hour to hand them over,
hastens to the kitchen — gait unsteady,
crams some more til it trickles.
She ardently recounts
loosely sewn memories of passing by
the British sahab en route to school.
And how she couldn’t piece together
the notoriety of the long-legged man
who beckoned her with candy that noon.
She nonchalantly looks at
her withering, decaying rose-garden,
interlacing her grey oil-soaked hair.
Quibbles about her locks turning thinner,
narrates her girlhood abound in vigour,
but little does she know — no one compares.
