By Yashvi Trivedi
baa’s palms,
worn, wrinkled yet warmly tender,
stitched the magic of my quaint little world
with thread and needle, only I could see.
I looked at them in awe,
my innocent fingers tracing their creases
each delicate fold,
a quiet, safe, haven.
where stories that kept me awake every night,
curled up to sleep.
the only thing brighter than the worlds she carved with her tales,
was the spark in her eyes,
the kind which, illuminated the darkest night
when on a midsummer’s uncertain day,
fell the first drop of rain.
she would hurriedly sit,
on the cold marble tile, legs crossed,
with a parchment, crisp and white held tight
her excitement visible on the corners of her cheeks.
a smile transcending the logic of time
pulling her back into the girl she used to be
and, I thought the little one here was supposed to be me!
she folded the paper carefully,
deliberately,
as if each ridge, each press, every turn
held a secret only we both shared
not perfect,
but precise with intention
just the way love is meant to be.
she handed me the paper-boat,
crisp and neat
soft yet trembling,
her bangles shaking, as to not upset the sensitive folds
the paper was warm, from the heat of her palm
the same warmth of a thousand lullabies
raindrops tapped into the balti from the ceiling,
outside, the stubborn rain swallowed our courtyard.
petrichor rising from the earth,
its aroma thick.
familiar as her memory
alive as the spices of her kitchen,
her kitchen, where every dusk chai leaves sighed into the boiling milk,
while peacocks danced and wailed through the soaked trees
yet my world stood still,
the nature simply not captivating enough
that boat my hope,
that boat, my everything.
the ray of sun on this gray day
which made the ravenous thunder
seem like my best friend.
so I ran out in glee,
my pigtails soaked, clinging to my back
my frail cotton frock heavy with rain,
with water rising to my knees,
I bent down ever so cautiously,
the paperboat clenched in my fist,
and gently let it go,
it floated, quietly, against the drainwater,
fragile, stubborn, and strangely beautiful.
it didn’t belong there, it was too clean
it was too precious compared to the filthy gutter
yet, it was brave, courageous
it reminded me of my grandmother.
the boat didn’t know it would not survive
it still believed
so certain it would last forever,
watching it drift away, it hurt.
hope was now painful
as painful as nostalgia.
as time has passed, inevitably so,
that same midsummer day has turned to dust,
its edges blurred, its moments in fragments
a memory so distant, I wonder if I ever lived it.
surreal, dreamlike, too magical to be real.
I don’t know if the boat existed.
maybe I imagined it.
maybe I imagined her.
was it all a fallacy, a fleeting feverdream?
the red bindis which clung to the corner of her mirror,
coconut oil slicked neatly through her parting,
her cotton sarees, threadbare, sun-softened,
holding the scent of soap, turmeric, and slow-cooked afternoons.
and the comfort that arrived with her,
long before words could.
maybe she was just a bedtime story
I told myself over and over.
but then why do I still feel the boat in my hands?
why does that same unspoken joy
that same aching hope,
stir in me every time it rains?
because when the rain returns
with a hint of deja vu,
I find myself searching for the paper boat
not to bring it back,
just to prove it was ever there.