The house still breathes in jasmine,
walls steeped in monsoon whispers,
floor cool beneath bare feet,
where time lingers in the scent of sandalwood and warmth.
She sits, wrapped in the hush of afternoon,
silver hair catching sunlit threads,
fingers tracing stories into the skin of ripe mangoes,
soft hums curling through the air like incense.
The wind moves through neem leaves,
a song only she understands,
and in the hush between moments,
I swear the earth leans in to listen.
Before her hunger stirs,
she feeds the strays—
a quiet ritual of compassion,
her heart full, as if the world is fed.
Her voice is a river—deep, steady, endless,
carrying echoes of the past,
names of those who no longer walk these halls,
but whose laughter still clings to the doorframes.
And when she calls my name,
it is not just sound but something more—
a place, a belonging,
a love that lingers, like jasmine at dusk.
For my great-grandmother, whose memory lingers like jasmine at dusk.
