Fistful of spices

F73ACFC6-AAD7-412A-9981-B6053DFAD1C6That India , like my home, homeland

her crowning glory sulks today in crisp kahwa leaves, shudders inside kangri embers, she trips into colorful phulkari’s and pagri’s spread out for protection of a rare crop,

and then decides to rest because dilli will always have her heart, she rests only to waken to a city that has sold it’s dill, grows long shadows which grow bigger each night, they swallow pigtailed girls and growl like a forlorn tiger mourning her clan, hide and seek games played at each street and corner; anklet bells drowning as other colored blood gushes through chowks and places,

soon her adolescent restlessness takes her to newer ghats, she had heard stories of elephants who are gods, playful ganeshas who lived and exited homes and hearts in unison moving towards a magnanimous sea; she did not find the ganeshas, they had all immersed into a churning ocean; an ocean that opened a wide ugly mouth to show a stomach lined with the past; but that was the past that is no longer; stomach lined with marigold flowers,orange saafas, green chaddars, tabeez on a black thread twisted knots with a white cotton janeu, the sun erased itself,

India starts to walk southwards and walks and walks and walks to the tip of her body, stands still and weary, adolescence left behind she transitions a decade, decades; a shriveled India stares at a burning horizon, she throws up a fistful of her spices, holi colors crumble into dust, then treads towards the water, treads towards the water, treads towards the water, treads towards the water; slow motion was my favorite part of Amitabh on screen,meanwhile an iconic temple crumbles, she submerges into a glimmering sea, drowning her shroud of anarchy,

she rises in sequel; multihued lotus in the bay of bengal

This India, like my home, homeland

®️©️ kashiana

Published by Kashiana

I am a management professional by job classification and a work practitioner by personal preference. One poetry collection - Shelling Peanuts and Stringing Words and a chapbook, Crushed Anthills. Always gathering poems, and letting them marinate and change shape and form.

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