Midway through an old love letter, I
pause. A Moupiya hovers over the
showy Gulanch. The yellowing paper in
my hand almost dissolves under the weight
of youthful desire. The handwriting is all
spider’s legs. A picture, tumbles out of the
folds like a long-held prisoner, finally
granted a release. In a different life, I used
to be sixteen, writing poems in the margins
of textbooks. My dress is a riot of Xewali
in late autumn, the hem gingerly grazing
my knees, scarred from years of being
wild and free. On our last meeting, he
ran his thumb against my wrist, tucked
away a strand of hair. Walking home,
I untucked it, the waves feral, scented
with Deodar, and gusty mountain winds.
Now, sifting through the pieces of myself
in my mother’s house, I smile at the brief
season of our passion. Running into him
at a cafe in Nongpoh, I tell him, I forgot to
post that letter. He chuckles softly at this
new piece of information, wipes his
coffee-stained mouth with the back of
his hand …but does not ask me why.
Glossary:
Moupiya- The Assamese word for sunbird.
Gulanch-Frangipani flowers in Assamese.
Xewali- Night –Flowering Jasmine in Assamese.
Nongpoh-A town in Meghalaya.
***
Madras Courier originally ran as a broadsheet with a poetry section. It was a time when readers felt comfortable sharing glimpses of their lives through verse. If you have a poem you’d like to submit, do email us at [email protected].
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