My father’s sister were to visit him today
My mother dressed me up
in a green velvet shirt and dusted tons of talcum powder on my neck
I smelled like Waheed’s Ammi who wears white mogra in her ears.
My mother tells me that my aunt loves me. I love her too. Even though she never remembers my name.
The railings at our verandah are way taller than me,
the only way to have a good glimpse of the road below is to carefully slide your neck between the horizontal bars of the railing
and move your head from side to side – a long left to a long right
the road was filled with a familiar sunbird’s song and a squirrel’s squeak
the sound of my aunt’s old Jeepsi nowhere to be heard, she nowhere to be seen
there is no joy in a wait without a promise
I slid my neck out of the railings and went to my room to lie down
but all of a sudden was amazed by a known sound
a tiny silhouette was swinging on the Tibetan prayer flags in my room’s window
singing a prayer I had heard before
I wonder what took her to cross the long distance,
brave a family of throat puffed, angry pigeons
and appear like a gentle lightening
with a song filled sound.
Rachit designs and facilitates immersive leadership programs for young people in India.
He has been engaged with a number of social causes and has been published by
several national and international literary platforms. Currently, he lives in Meerut, India.