Photographs

By Devanshi 

I don't need photographs.
My memories don't crumble at the edges,
or fade to the sepia of time.
The warmth of nostalgia lies vibrant in my hippocampus;
and far deeper, at the vortex of my soul.
Photographs are for strangers.
My own earth
holds true.
It tells me of the summer of '17
and the sun's tangerine.
Photographs don't tell of childhood toothaches,
or how the first bliss of womanhood at fourteen,
was being eve teased, at 3 p.m.
I remember the warmth of my mother's lap,
the spice of her slap, a heavy, yet comforting weight,
and the scent of her dupatta
of tulsi and coconut oil.
I starkly remember the joy of uninvited mangoes
that Papa would surprise us with on a random Friday evening.
Or the greasy Chinese on my finger, and its "MEENU"
rarely sweet, the longing of spice on my tongue.
And I remember my father's arms that held my body
like a trophy, unsoiled from his anger.
And the fact returns, insistent,
again,
when I open the suitcase,
worn out on edges that I remembered to be perfectly fine and strong.
Storing the photo album that I rarely open, for strangers.
The edges, crumpled and worn out.
The plastic has decomposed and thawed
by the cold of the storeroom.
And as I show it to the guest,
gazing at the toothless girl,
carefree from the agonies of her newfound tooth
that the mice took,
I see no pain in her eyes, but in mine.
I flip the fragile page
to look at this young woman of fourteen, wearing skirts,
refusing to hide her legs by the fear of being eve teased.
I see the bliss of rebellion in her eyes,
and the lack of it, in mine.
I also see her in her mother's lap, gay.
While her mother's shoulders slouch and back aches by the weight.
I see her joyously eating mangoes, while her maid mops the floor,
who was scolded later for spoiling the photograph.
I see the infant in her father's lap,
who seems not to care about her at all.
He is probably more burdened by
his deadlines, or his job, or his friends.
His hands hold her mechanically,
and will never touch her soul.
I am ashamed because as I tell about each memory to the visitor,
I go
farther and farther
from my own hippocampus.
If my earth holds true,
I am unsure.
No,
I don't need photographs.