by Krishna J. Nair, III B.A. English
I have been told that pretty women blossomed in our garden.
For instance, Ammama was a blue lotus
On a full moon night, yearning for Appapa’s soft touch.
Ammama also had a name that was given
To the kindest of the moon.
I have been told that pretty women blossomed in our garden.
Amma was a sunflower, surrounded by a forest
Full of gulmohar trees. Oddly, every night,
The moon shone only on the sunflower,
And the blue lady by the creek.
When I stumbled on the flowers in our house,
Where the sunroof held dead leaves
Which were cleared once in a blue moon
Because Ammama left us all too soon,
Appa held his stare on the bougainvillea;
For him, they were just villains.
When I rushed back home one day after school
Wearing pinafore of navy blue,
Old men stood in our garden
With garden tools looking solemn.
Appa’s eyes directed at the villains
Who lined up on our porcelain white wall.
But I have been told that pretty women blossomed in our garden.
So when I grew up to an age
Where I was held accountable for my rage,
I chopped down the plastic flowers
Who lined up on our porcelain white wall.
With the rage raging against the dying wind,
I broke down the wall too.
Because Amma said pretty women blossomed in
Our oh-so-precious garden.
So I ran around the hood grabbing
Saplings and wood,
When I stumbled on a pretty red leaf
Which swayed from a gulmohar tree.
It strayed away from a tree so beautiful,
It covered a full moon night
With shades of sunset.
It was as if Ammama never died
As if Amma never left.
As if Appapa’s soft touch
Never for a second left
The blue lotus petals.
I built a garden of gulmohar trees,
For pretty women blossomed in our garden,
They never left even for a second.
Mortals, immortalized
In shades of blue, sunset, and blood red.
Ammama: Grandmother (maternal)
Appapa:Grandfather (maternal)
Appapa:Grandfather (maternal)