My mother didn't birth me, she said.
'I plucked you from a tree, 
a Papaya tree',  she says.

'It rained torrents that Chait* night,
a storm raged, tearing apart 
all that came its way
our hut was blown, everything swept away
the tree shuddered, so did the fruits
I spent the night clinging to the scarred trunk
worried about our next meal, 
a wild gale, then, bent the Papaya tree 
I latched on to you while your siblings 
fell apart. Bursting seedlings over my body. 
With all my strength, I plucked you
the stem and branches bruised my hands and arms
streaks of blood trickled and covered your face
you had a tender, pale skin. 

Can you feel the scar on your forehead ? 
That's where my silver bracelet was lodged. 
You weren't ripe, not yet. 

Next morning, still trembling, I hid you 
in the warmth of the last cloth on my body, thereon
you slept in my ***** till
the first rain of Baisakh**.

Your father, she said, 
'had gone seeding the fields'.
She said, 'You are the fruit of my labour.'

The home is under
           the leafy tree.
The graveyard too
         is not far to see!

Reading some of my poetry, she said,
“Are you barking up the wrong tree?”
I knew what she meant,
for this art is not something I had learnt.

Tearing up a bark is easy,
matching words made me queasy.
I knew what she meant,
yet I was not ready to vent.

Dreaming is a daily ritual,
writing needs to flow as natural,
I knew what she meant,
yet I had a thoughtful bent.

I started to read more,
bark became paper to teach me some more,
I knew what she meant,
yes, a slight nudge from her has been god sent.

Forming together
As if in a curt whisper,
The gnarled shadows
Poke and ****
At the glimmering snow.

The moonlight
Politely beckoning the wind
To provide these shadows delight.

They giggle in the nip and tickle
Of the seemingly stagnant breeze,
But they bore of its humor
As the wind’s imposing air
Dissipates with growing unconfidence.

The snow’s silky silver sheen
Is shaded by the gnarled green.
The moon’s reflectant piercing light
Prevades this stagnantly silent night.

we study lips
yet no sound
can convey
what remains unspoken

we draw trees
for every sentence
then refuse
to paint the leaves

every word
we know how to create
but creators
we are not

the history of language
walks our tongues
we admire
without adding

we analyze
written or spoken
to avoid
our own

Never be a reed

                  behind a tree.

hidden away from others.


      Always be the wind,

as it can pass beyond any obstacle.