I’m saying home,
the mango tree
the adult politics of shortlisting recipients
for an aam ki peti
while the loo churns out
my peter-panesque languor
holding the cool matka
against my cheek
Statue Circle and the shifting faces of stone
Mumma asking “and whose statue is that?”
and I swear I knew, but
that terrible fear of being wrong
the tender arms of the flowers
from the sanganeri print
tangled on the quilts in the winter cold
blushing shyly through the shroud of white kholis
and how I wanted to tear them free
being scoffed at for using Google maps
in my own city
because Jaipur isn’t even that big
and pink city isn’t even that pink
but they still keep the coconut biscuits
I pretend to like
the langas sing Baisa laadka ghana
every time I make it back
soft and alive, yawning in the warm pocket
of familiar voices, another cup
of gulabji ki chai
spiked with the comfort
of memory and delusion
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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