Kaudi, The blanket
In her last years, Nani spent
All her time stitching Kaudi.
She did tens of them and gave
Them away to her loved ones.
She would gather all the
Old clothes, cut them up,
Stitch them in patches on
Stretch of old sarees.
These blankets she stitched
So meticulously, almost
Every hour of every day,
Looked like her biography.
All the childhood memories,
Scattered in the red patches.
Her teenage days in the
Checkered yellow ones..
In the glittery embroidery
On the borders.
Maybe about her first love
Or a crush if there was one.
I got the last one of
Her final work.
One of the nights,
The green patches in mine,
Told me all about the raw guavas
In her father's backyard.
Now that I keep thinking
About those violate, brown
And the pink patches that
Haven't yet talked..
Maybe that's where the rest
Of the world's libraries hide.
Tired Fragrances
The wafted smell of jasmines,
While he passed the street yesterday.
Took him to the days when
His mother still fancied them
In her braid.
It seems like an era has
Passed now.
How his father brought them
To her from the local markets.
How even she herself,
Stood arguing with hawkers,
For an extra inch of the wreath..
Now she doesn't wear any.
When his father passed away
And in what forsaken book
It must have been etched,
About the husband-less women,
And the flowers she fancies.
And if the natural order is just
Beauty and desire are
The true measure of existence..
Then in every market,
In the every hawker's wickers,
A handful of Jasmine,
That were ought to be in a
Mother's braid... Wither in
Tired fragrances...
And in all glory as they
Waft past the noses of all the
Over-aged sons, they slap them
Awake to the loneliness of their-
Widowed mothers.
Ajay Koyimuttal