Gulmohar Red

An Inconvenient Etymology

A baker whispered into my ears

—this crunchy caramel confection

that can absolve sin.

The troika of heaven’s feast—

sugar, butter, and salt-bathed nuts.

The French called it Nougatine.

How elegantly it arrives in my ears

with their uvular trill.

When my brother brought home

a slab of this

classy continental confection,

it landed on my hand with only a

familiar dull thud

of a commoner’s commons.

Flash forward to the sticky caulk

in between the hollows

of my teeth.

I now call it Chikki,

the inelegant kind that

falls off the tongue

like the taunt

of an annoying child.

I say to you one late spring—my favourite colour is

gulmohar red.

You only say gulmohars are from Madagascar,

and their fern-like leaves are feathery

and light as a parakeet’s green

—the kind of spitting facts only you do so well.

I don't like ferns;

they grow near the drains where I come from.

In the commonness of their dirty fronds

fiddling the gaps of open drains,

I find no comparison

to the springing green of gulmohar leaves.

You tell me ferns don't flower,

yet they are older than trees.

And I don't tell you

that I don't like ferns.

And so, the quiet dismantling we do so well,

flowers red yet again

in the spring rain

like the gulmohar I love,

and we walk away in silence, unholding hands.

Heart Breaks like a Grape

The pop of

one

cold grape,

the first one,

that summer,

you remember

and carry

its taste

your tongue

and

compare it

to every grape

that

came after.

How I Know Spring Is Here

Under the slanting luminescence

of rainforest’s canopy

heat,

the cicadas have come

overground to sing.

Broods spill out

of spring’s dampened earth,

moulting into singing bards,

and die beautiful deaths

in the aftermath

of their magnum opus

plaguing sleep all around.

Only the choruses of tuning vibrations

in between the spokes

of evergreen leaves

linger

when they leave.

There is nothing artificial

about their love-lorn song.

How brief and timely

they awake

to the slowly awakening quake

of this earth’s

icy winter sleep.

Spring Cleaning

Momentarily

in the company of warm

March morning air,

I forget

the stack of dishes soaked in the sink.

The trouble with spring is,

it makes me forget the troubles

with trouble.

Here, I rinse my face

in the warmth of

sadness-robbing

daylight.

Momentarily

in the heat

of bitter coffee before

the eyes

of this morning heat,

I relish the mouthfeel

of a caffeine-soaked tongue.

I’ll roll the thermal burnt bits

of my peeling skin

inside my mouth

and press hard

where it hurts.

Momentarily

my own laughter

rings in my eardrum; I am surprised

by the sound

I can make.

I’ll sense the cuts belatedly;

the eventual tearing of flesh

by kite strings I blissfully play with.

And stack more dishes in the sink

and wait

for another spring day

to wash me clean again.

About the Poet:

Parul Tayenjam found solace in poetry many years ago but only started writing them about two years ago as a form of therapy.