not being of the same warp and weft
a murukkan-stained smile queried
from under a jackfruit tree:
"ishtapetto (like it)?"
"o (yes)", said my friend,
managing a stumble on a crooked, mud track.
84, in a white mundu, blouse,
a thorthu fronting ample breasts,
madhavi kutty pickets memories.
claims she:
the jackfruit is my age,
leftover from a crowd axed for seeding rubber.
a yakshi has her home guessing times.
a lingering clasp of lips behind the jackfruit,
her loving chettan,
tickles her to a chuckle.
prescribed a distance by karanavars
(it has shrunk, yet remains),
working in ricefields,
a cup of kanji someday,
a saucer the next,
but never together.
the track was a water-way,
the fields bore rice and tapioca,
there was day,
there was night,
there were laughs,
there were tears.
sloughing customs, flaunted a red flag.
hammer and sickle lie rusted.
emotions crusted.
a tin trunk,
loose change,
bits of bell metal,
kept her two daughters unwed;
caring madhavi they age.
lights the dawn with oil wicks in the
prayer room,
brooms the front yard,
eases with a cup of tea and mathrubhoomi.
now,
lost between acres of rubber
miles of jewellery billboards,
she is in an acceptance,
as a cool breeze curls up on the crown of
the jackfruit,
a piece of blue sky for a pillow.