Amma used to light clay diyas on Diwali,
she would light a brass one on ordinary days,
she knew just how much devotion to exploit,
despite the allure of not-so-ordinary days.
Ordinary days
she said;
had little hands that held the world;
crooked shoulders to hold the contours of a weeping face;
battles that had to be chosen wisely;
love, and then some;
the ability to soak the smell of rain;
some heartbreak brewing in a whistling teapot,
a teapot that overheard verses after verses of unspoken utterances;
lots of mistakes to hope for, (mistakes are narcissistic that way);
little points of light
and little things we so easily take for granted.
It is a romance of sorts, wouldn’t you say?
the skin of the back drinking the fresh wetness of the hair;
the aftertaste of tea prodding lightly on the tongue;
the patience of the creases of a crisply pressed and neatly folded shirt;
the sublime repetition of dawn, day, dusk and night;
dawn, day, dusk, night;
Amma, sleeping, day after day, tucked tightly under a blanket
with Baba’s snores at her elbow.
Amma used to light clay diyas on Diwali,
she would light a brass one on ordinary days,
she knew just how much devotion to exploit,
despite the allure of not-so-ordinary days.
Ordinary days
knew how best to say home,
so she said,
so it is,
for every word out of her mouth was a riot,
that spoke to the genius of ordinary days.
Akshita Sharma is a medical student from New Delhi, India. She loves art in all forms and absolutely loves to write.
Featured image: Sonika Agarwal / Unsplash