By Nakshatra Manasani
Who – knew?
that a wistful soul
masked lingering wounds of rue.
More of a cemetery of dying whispers –
than a soul.
Amnesic whispers of the antecedent; the clawing past – you could say.
Perhaps I was aware of such a thing,
whilst I later lay hushed wistfully.
A bleeding yonder of vermillion velvet.
Sober yet – drunk in the bitter former pages,
apart from the sweet kiss of the silver anklet.
Cadencing indented lines of my palm.
Blackened --
from days gone by.
"How much for…a pair of anklets?”
Ma's rummaging eyes had spoken,
whilst mine caressed the promising hands of an artisan.
Polishing honey dew crotales of such melodic voices,
kindled by the sonorous whisper of luster-bathed silver.
The sound of home: motherhood.
‘Chan-Chan’
It reminded me of…her.
Her canorous tread gyrating home on my arrival.
A warm grin and flaxen irises,
and an enfold – sweet as a chirp of a nightingale.
It reminded me of her --
The silver Ramparts of her trail.
Brass crotales the shade of her sindoor.
Chained links of her anklet -
braided into a delicate plait.
A mortal ornament herself, one could say.
But all ornaments – ended up bathing in black anyway.
'Lifeless', it would appear…
“Mother..? What is that – supposed to be?”
I was asked, that one evening,
as both of my feet adorned -
with her anklets sang.
Sang like hers.
Ripping loud silence
Of her demise.
And I had merely grinned –
Embellished heart of affection,
Her burdened feet of responsibility now mine.
"Nothing, dear.”
“Just a few ounces of
– blackened silver.”