BY MOUNISHA TRIPATHI
The storm always calmed down
as it entered Amma's threshold.
The harrowing noises would be
shrill yet soft,
it would settle into the empty cuppa
beside her chair.
Amma said it made her back hurt, the wind.
Said there was water retention,
now she holds a part of the Ganges.
"Amma, you are a balloon," we giggle.
"Which means I can pop."
It was not mortal,
the past, present, and future
all muddled into the center of the whorl.
The rain accompanying washed away Maa's red-stained feet,
Papa's anger which was just as crimson.
Amma peeled oranges in its vicinity,
the little dirt collected all over it is good for us, she said.
You will perish one day, in the brown of this dust,
We knew, but being reminded was devouring.
Destruction bringing creation,
the companion in worst times.
The specks of spice dust would hold allergies,
the leaves a promise of autumn.
Did the storm change the World?
No, just made us aware that the world is about changes.
Amma would change the same.
In photographs, it was all stationary
but she could not hold us up now,
call our names for Imli candy.
Still pale eyes,
Still new fever dreams,
the fight to save her children from claws deeper than knives all gone.
The storm was another illusion,
and an exit to liberation.