By Aaradhya Garg


Cousins love kalami -

the newest, grafted one.

The site division of that summer.

Low, identical branches, that

needed only plucking not climbing together.

I let them have my share.

My heart perched on the branches

of the mighty Satpedwa, the magical one

which grew seven different varieties;

the tall Seepiahwa, its seashell shaped fruit

cajoled from a canopy of the child’s imagination;

the huge Cheeniahwa, which sugared its fruit

because at the well dug up next to the tree,

grandfather’s father had kept gud for the unknown travelers.

They are passing away one by one,

being replaced graft by graft.

I haven’t planted a Senurahwa,

who’s colors match the hope of dawn.

Will the heart’s of my children’s children

perch atop branches to find beauty in difference?

A summer without the plurality of desi mangoes.

I don’t want to know the word for it

from the language of their future.

This poem won in Instagram Weekly Contest held by @delhipoetryslam on the theme 'Indian Summer' 


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