Jan 2018
I stared at the haunted castle, blood red & abandoned by mortals, the cursed colour falling off in mortared chunks, revealing a dead gray beneath the lively crimson.
A double-bricked mansion no longer used by the government, but still adds charm to the endless garden, untended & overgrown.
I stare back at my grandmother, sitting by the mansion stairs, greedily dunking a large chunk of bread in her thermos cup that swirled with piping hot tea, its steam circling her golden mane under the 7 am sun.
She breaks off another humongous chunk, and wiggles her finger at me. I sit beside her as she shoves a soggy tea-soaked bread inside my mouth, as the Bengali track-clad uncles stare at us with knowing smiles.
The fishermen call for their wives behind us, as they speed down the slippery stairs of the Ghat with wicker baskets.The kids dive inside the murky water **** naked, racing towards the boat, slicing through the waters in a frenzy.
I wait for my grandmother to resume our morning walk but she finds a cemented bench under the Peepal shade and lies down. I remember the instructions my mother sent me with - to make her walk like the doctor said.
But I dive in, lodging myself within the crook of her arms as she sleeps, finding my place like I always do. The thermos is empty, but our stomachs are full. Two clumsily torn packets of sweet bread get swept away with the dried leaves as I watch the sunlight play along with the canopies. And we both conspire about how we will boast to my mother about the long routes we took during our walks. And the new exercises we tried.
Nonetheless, she doesn't move a joint, and I don't know about a single exercise routine yet. But I'm in her arms, and it's a good day.
©hecayte
A double-bricked mansion no longer used by the government, but still adds charm to the endless garden, untended & overgrown.
I stare back at my grandmother, sitting by the mansion stairs, greedily dunking a large chunk of bread in her thermos cup that swirled with piping hot tea, its steam circling her golden mane under the 7 am sun.
She breaks off another humongous chunk, and wiggles her finger at me. I sit beside her as she shoves a soggy tea-soaked bread inside my mouth, as the Bengali track-clad uncles stare at us with knowing smiles.
The fishermen call for their wives behind us, as they speed down the slippery stairs of the Ghat with wicker baskets.The kids dive inside the murky water **** naked, racing towards the boat, slicing through the waters in a frenzy.
I wait for my grandmother to resume our morning walk but she finds a cemented bench under the Peepal shade and lies down. I remember the instructions my mother sent me with - to make her walk like the doctor said.
But I dive in, lodging myself within the crook of her arms as she sleeps, finding my place like I always do. The thermos is empty, but our stomachs are full. Two clumsily torn packets of sweet bread get swept away with the dried leaves as I watch the sunlight play along with the canopies. And we both conspire about how we will boast to my mother about the long routes we took during our walks. And the new exercises we tried.
Nonetheless, she doesn't move a joint, and I don't know about a single exercise routine yet. But I'm in her arms, and it's a good day.
©hecayte
