Durgarani

Durgarani's palms carried

The memory of

The map of Burma

Where she was born.

It was different from

Myanmar in today's Atlas.

Each wrinkle on her skin had a story

That was conceived

For ninety-two years.

When she was not yet a woman,

Her long hair fell below

The knees, so that her mother

Tied it in plaits joined as a bun.

She wore short white skirts

And played tennis each evening.

I heard that my grandpa

Married her when she was thirteen --

Enamoured of her butter complexion

 And sparkling eyes.

He changed her name and like the moon,

She waxed and waned in her new home.

She never played tennis again

Or entered a classroom.

But on her deathbed, she sang

"Orange juice and lemons" for me.

Doctors diagnosed her with dementia.

She apparently did not know who I was;

Perhaps in her misty dreams, 

I was a childhood friend to comfort her

At the end of all voyages.

Although orange juice and lemons

Are not sold for a penny nowadays;

Yet the rest of the song is true.

The grass is still green, 

The rose is a flaming red.

And I remember my grandma ages 

After she is gone…till

I am dead.