I am from the sweetness of mangoes,
Snatched from Amma’s hands between playing,
And from the sour spice of maanga thokku
Sun-warmed on the rim of the well in Pati’s backyard,
I am from the heat of the summer, the sudden splash of water
Drawn from the well and thrown against walls by Thatha,
Making us yell out “Poochi!” as we laugh
At the descending spiders and flies.
I am from the clicking of the bicycle,
As my brother drives us through the apartment.
And from the hoarse cry of “Paaapaaay” that follows
The vendors who ride with us,
I am from the cold of the fog
That Appa protects me from with scarves and hugs
And the “this is yours, this is mine” fights
He breaks up in the process.
I am from the muffled laughter through the closed door,
Behind which my tuneless humming and dainty steps are heard.
And from the footsteps made of rice flour on Krishna Jayanthi
And the arrangements of the little people with little homes and little lamps,
With the Sahasranamam in the background as we children flock
The adults with kumkum and manjal and a “come again”.
I am from the gentle pitter-patter of rain
Upon a rainbow- coloured umbrella over two little heads.
I am from the fantastical world of Princesses and Princes,
The hairstylists and the tailors on a hidden ledge,
And from the merging of two childish voices that sing
Sankarabharanam in the car with windows down.
I am from the numerous trips from Bangalore to Chennai,
With travel sickness and Milk Bikis and “Are we there yet?”
I am from Noddy and Little Women with tea-stained pages
With dog-ears and the marks of impatient fingers and impatient voices,
“Are you done yet?” That rings out in protest each night.
Design by Neenu Elza
Article 19 