Colours And Stories

Thatched houses of the ancient greats,

Crushed letters carved on the cool laterite

The sour and sweetness of the wild berries

And the chipped smell of the fish curry, her grandma used to make are still sound and sweet.

In a blink of her eye,

And there's a swish-the air.

No thunder. No lightning, but

There's a girl, I see

In pigtails, beautiful like the winter sun

Drifting in her yellow skirt like the laburnum tree swaying in the wind

Carrying gently,

The roots of the Malabar melastome

Supporting the cool drops of the monsoon,

To her eyes

And she would smile

As the drop sinks into her eyes carved with kohl,

As if the forgotten drop of stories squeezes, the secrets of the sky, the sparrows, and the wind

Into the sole gospel, she held onto-her eyes.

She would call it a childhood fascination during the monsoons in her village in Kerala.

'The people were perfect'

She would say,

'They were the sunflowers blooming

Amidst a doom

Singing their moods out

Who could stand chattering with the sun

For hours

Standing the gloom, blood, and faith.'

Her every story holds colours

Like the vivid faces of the Kathakali dancers

Who themselves have a certain story to tell...

I see,

Colours narrate stories, not people

And my grandma's tamarind tree has it all

The giggles from her hide n seek with her 'kootukaari',

Tears from the faith that bound her parents

Fear from the days of sin, and

A sweet pucker from the tamarind above.

Her rocking chair gives a rock

Every second she puts together a story

And I would rest on her lap

With closed eyes, watching the neelakurinji bloom

And one day

While she is moving her hands-

The lovely bones as I call them,

Through my dark tangled hair

Just like when she used to pluck

Mogras for me

From the close-knitted shrub,

She says,

'The swift.

It realized it had to leave

Its long glossy wings made a different sound then

The sound of goodbye

Which I haven't heard since '

The flowers turned into my grandma's dulcet

Voice;

'Would I be there as one of the feathers

In your wings when you grow one?'

It was a little quiet. Warm. Mushy. The air.

I smiled and said-

'Bodies and memories; faint. Die. Not colours.'