Summers in India were full of apples.
Washed, peeled, sliced.
Apple pulps, apple pies, apple juice, apples with cinnamon.
Apples with Kala Namak.*
Moon-shaped apple pieces, turning yellow inside a round tiffin box made of steel.
Those summer nights, humid and crimson, reeked only of the trees that grew beside the city pipes;
Growing rarer by the day and the granite floors, cooler with the looming monsoon.
Summers in India were full of apples.
Washed, peeled, sliced.
Several years of dust have lathered on, the salt in the air grinding between my canines, grudgingly rubbing-in irritation with my nostalgia.
The old Fiat lies wasted, it's beauty lost on the men that drove her in the 90s.
Those men are fast asleep now, their wives fondly reminiscing old errands.
And I wonder where the apples now grow and the itchy chairpai* now resides;
Home is not home, home is not here.
Without those apples washed, peeled and sliced.
Turning back I see you, examining the vast city from your spot on the terrace, old and savaged and dusty.
The cane chair creaks as you collapse into it, your eyebrows still crinkled from the summer heat.
I tell you that summers are different now, without the apples.
I forget;
You taste of rum.
You are the summer now.
*Kala Namak : Black Salt.
*Charpai : Small cot made of coir
P.S: I am heavily inspired by Kamala Das, I know. Maybe it makes me less of a writer but my words are drawn only from 'snippets of trivia and nostalgia'. I cannot write well. I am sorry.
Washed, peeled, sliced.
Apple pulps, apple pies, apple juice, apples with cinnamon.
Apples with Kala Namak.*
Moon-shaped apple pieces, turning yellow inside a round tiffin box made of steel.
Those summer nights, humid and crimson, reeked only of the trees that grew beside the city pipes;
Growing rarer by the day and the granite floors, cooler with the looming monsoon.
Summers in India were full of apples.
Washed, peeled, sliced.
Several years of dust have lathered on, the salt in the air grinding between my canines, grudgingly rubbing-in irritation with my nostalgia.
The old Fiat lies wasted, it's beauty lost on the men that drove her in the 90s.
Those men are fast asleep now, their wives fondly reminiscing old errands.
And I wonder where the apples now grow and the itchy chairpai* now resides;
Home is not home, home is not here.
Without those apples washed, peeled and sliced.
Turning back I see you, examining the vast city from your spot on the terrace, old and savaged and dusty.
The cane chair creaks as you collapse into it, your eyebrows still crinkled from the summer heat.
I tell you that summers are different now, without the apples.
I forget;
You taste of rum.
You are the summer now.
*Kala Namak : Black Salt.
*Charpai : Small cot made of coir
P.S: I am heavily inspired by Kamala Das, I know. Maybe it makes me less of a writer but my words are drawn only from 'snippets of trivia and nostalgia'. I cannot write well. I am sorry.
6 comments:
Omg! I kept thinking 'Sooo Kamala Das' in my head as I was reading and then I saw the post script :)
You're incredible!
And a lot of things might make you less of a writer. This, just, isn't it.
Love!
ardrita i love you :* this is just so so kamala das !
This is beautiful.
Orange plum: Haha thanks man :) Kamala Das is the shiz.
Samin: Long time, thanks :)
Isha: Thangs thangs. Now meet me. :)
I felt slightly terrible, 'cause I loved what you wrote, and then again, I hadn't read Kamala Das.
So, I'm so fishing her now.
And you are a lovely writer.
I really liked what you've written, and I haven't read Kamala Das. Will check her out too.
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