By Dhruvi Shah Mota
Lost in my thoughts,
But looking to find a book
Standing under my tall book case,
I couldn’t reach to the highest
“Love stories of the world”,
So I aim at the middle.
And a book resting heavy on
The middle shelf in the midst
Of other books, just calls out to me!
The book is titled “Dhabkar”
It’s written in Gujarati by a Panna Shah
Who I then recall, is my mom’s maternal aunt.
I carefully take it out of its slumber
And open the first page with delicacy.
A dedication to my mom
મારી લાડલી અલકા ને (પનના) પાનબાઈ શામજી સત્રા તરફથી સપેમ
“To my darling Alka, from Panna Panbai Shamji Satra with love”
I beam a smile with all my heart.
As I open further, there are four more lines:
“You gave us values
And with them I saw dreams,
They took shape
And a beat became a heartbeat”
I promise you, I felt the lines in my heart
And it was instantly at peace.
My mom, who was waiting on me
Is standing close by
And I ask if she will read
And help me try to make meaning
Of the words on the page.
And we start by sitting close…
I read a few lines
She takes the book from me
And rallies them back
With the understanding of them.
Each word on the page (પનના)
Flows with ease and rhythm
My heart flutters but then beats steadily
Quite literally, the “ધબધબધબધબ”
Becomes “ધબ ધબ ધબ”
How beautiful it feels in my being.
We read 2 pages,
And then I turn to my mom and ask,
“હજી છે પાનબાઇ ફઈ?”
She says “હા” in the affirmative
And then I ask how she is
Not so well she thinks.
“એમને ફોન લગાડુ?” she asks.
I say yes. And she excitedly calls her,
Skips straight to asking her what she’s doing
Before asking how she is.
Like the little girl I was, and she was,
And we all have within us,
She tells her I found her book
And how we read it and how I write
And I can’t wait for her to pass me the phone
And she can’t stop talking hurriedly
So she can pass it to me.
I hear her (my mom’s aunt’s) voice, like the jingle of an anklet
Melodies in her every syllable and space
And I feel like I’m finding my way back to my roots
After all, it is her printed words on paper
That have led to this phone banter.
I remind her of the time she came to my home,
When I was all of 9,
My poem published in the International Library of Poetry
We had brought of the large yet slender coffee table book
In which it was published, from my book case
And presented it to her.
I then tell her about the anthology my poems appeared in
Making sense of the “isolation”
During the pandemic
And about my solo poetry anthology debut
“How Not Loving Taught Me To Love”
And ask if she would read it since it’s in English?
She tells me to send it over
She would love to have a copy
And so much transpires in the conversation
Admiration, love, laughs, words, heritage, ancestry
I briefly speak with her son
Whose wife follows my spoken word poetry.
My mom takes the phone back
And asks about her health
And they continue the conversation
I quickly pull out my phone
And while they’re still in the talking
I start typing away this poem
My mom breathes a sigh of relief
And feels so happy
As if she found that little girl I was
Smiling and bubbly and so bouncy
With her words
I feel it in my heartbeat, you know, “ધબકાર”!