Drown

Old, forgotten tales of love
Weaved by lowered eyes
Few of which you understand
Glances and gentle sighs.

Of eternal, afterlife promises,
Of bartering life with god,
Withering smiles awaken,
Pathways together trod.

Not destined to receive,
The love you hanker for,
That act demands largesse
And pain worth dying for.

Those lips may never touch
And fingers never weave,
Nights not turn to evenings
And breaths never heave.

But nothing less will matter
And nothing less will live
Drown you must to sail again
Drown and still believe.

Find you may in a person,
In a voice, a place, a song
Find you may in a mirror,
With you, walking along.

Waning

Very recently, I met one of my grandmothers.

You know, I don't have just two grandmothers. I have several. My grandpa's sis-in-law, for instance, qualifies to be my grandmom. My grand uncle's wife would also be my grand-aunt and by that logic, sort of, well, grandma again.

My new grand mom is really tiny. When I hug her, she disappears in the hug. She has dyed hair so while the rest of her looks so old, the hair bit does not. She has wrinkles and crows' feet and everything crinkles up when she smiles.

She shouts. She is witty. She has a clever comeback to everything and is very thrilled if you can pit your wits against hers'. She called my grand father and spoke to him after more than four decades. She yelled at him for a straight five minutes on the phone while he fumbled and apologised for not staying in touch.

You have no idea how satisfying it is to know that there is still somebody who is qualified to yell at my grand father. I have never seen anybody shouting at my grand father.

Bengali grand moms are supposed to know lots of ghost stories. This one does not. When we asked her to tell us some ghost stories, she quickly quipped that she knows no scary stories, just real life stories which are usually more entertaining and bizarre than fictional ones.

She likes Kachoris secretly. She is a big fan of bread and butter. Toasted. And she is even more thrilled if you cut it up in neat little pieces and give it to her. She makes some seriously awesome Chhena Kheer.

She keeps herself entertained. But she says "Well, life is going on. Like it always does" when you ask "How have you been?"

Like a moon that is waning but must show on those last few days before the new moon.

It makes me want to die young.