My Mom

Mom,

Everything has changed.

A day after you were buried,

My eyes refused to tear incessantly.

So I started searching for something else

That could blur my vision,

And help me overlook my caged existence.

The days seem fine though

But in the nights,

I overflow with a peculiar longing

For light.

The moon, having lost its shimmer,

Has stopped visiting our roof.

So just before the dusk I catch

A bright ray of the crimson sun

As it is about to hide behind the neighbors' wall.

I tip-toe to the kitchen

With the cusp of my palm well sealed

And pour the light

In the empty iron tin

Kept on the second shelf.

I blind my sleepless eyes

In the light that seeps

From the opening between its brim and the lid.

It helps me overshadow grief.

The days seem fine though

But in the nights,

I overflow with a peculiar longing

For din.

It is dead silent outside.

The cricket, having lost his green,

has stopped chirping in the dark.

Each tick of the rusty red clock

Seems like a countdown to disaster.

You rightly said that time doesn’t stop.

I tried breaking the second hand,

But it seems to grow again

And tick faster than before

Each moment seems to grow in on me;

When seconds haunt me with uncertainty,

Hours cease to matter.

The days seem fine though

But in the nights,

I overflow with a peculiar longing

For warmth.

I am shivering in the chill

But the markets, having lost cooking fuel,

Sell only grenades for fire.

So I break legs of wooden chairs

And pile them up in a canopy

But the phosphorous of the match does not burn;

When I’m done striking each stick in vain

I rub the spark out of vengeful stones,

That were hurled at me but the window came in between.

I hug my knees as I watch flames take shape

The cackling furniture has not turned to ash

And I already feel claustrophobic

In this artificial warmth that burns our home.