The house with no nameplate
A gentle breeze leads metoward a house with no mailbox, no nameplate, yet where the fragrance of my ancestors lingers in the wind.
The house with no nameplate
A gentle breeze leads me
toward a house with no mailbox,
no nameplate,
yet where the fragrance of my ancestors
lingers in the wind.
Sometimes, a sudden shower
washes the dust from the courtyards,
where I can hear
my great grandfather’s
fading voice
on his harmonium.
The strings still miss him,
he who sang lullabies,
wedding songs,
and unfinished farewells
until his fingers ached.
Under the charpai,
hushed giggles emerge
from photographs
in a family album:
my great grandmothers and aunts,
new brides in banarsi saree,
vermilion in their hair,
their surnames folded
into the rising dough of new life.
I hear their bangles clink
as they carry buckets of water
to rinse vermilion from
their tangled hair
and crumpled sheets.
Beneath the neem tree,
crows circle, watching
as my aunts discuss
the meaning behind
the unfinished farewell songs,
as uncles sow the new seeds,
writing their names on dust,
hoping neither vanishes
beneath anyone’s feet.
The Tadka of Our Household
I pray in the kitchen
one extra minute each day.
Tadka is a blessing here,
in a small pan:
ghee sizzling,
cumin dancing,
my mother’s tongue
steeped in curses
meant for my father.
Onions, green chilies cut fine,
as my sister tells stories
of falling in love.
Each spice measured
by my mother’s vulture’s eye:
no second-guessing.
Garlic and ginger hit the pan,
as younger siblings tug
at mother’s sleeves
for her to stop bickering.
Lower the heat
when everything browns and softens, she says:
“Don’t let it burn on high heat,
as it does in love.”
She stirs the mixture gently,
I slide a failing report card
off the table.
My siblings argue
in the next room.
The tadka is ready,
its colors
like sunrise over the lost river.
We pour it into the chawal
and let the house fill
with the warmth
of a missing glove
on a cold morning.
Betel Leaf Hymns
Whenever I pass a betel leaf shop,
my mind drifts to Bhagalpur,
a small town in Bihar where my grandfather lived:
garrulous, exacting, able to recite
the Indian Constitution, the Geeta,
and the names of 84,000 gods in a single breath.
Each evening, he made us translate Hindi to English,
word for word, from Wren and Martin.
He loved his Paan, betel leaves.
He entrusted me with their preparation,
me, always last to submit assignments.
I’d sneak in a little extra choona,
just enough to irritate his tongue
as he kept giving us homework.
He’d wince, then grin.
Neither of us ever won.
For the past few years, he’s been silent,
gone, like rain absorbed into earth.
I wish I’d asked,
“Why did you always tell people we were your grandsons?
”He might have said,
“Ask me after I die.”
Today, I hold my breath in both palms.
His chewed betel leaf-dark, curled, unfinished-
becomes my psalm.
About the Poet:
Laila Brahmbhatt: Having lived in many places, I weave myself into my poems like the meandering leaves of bougainvillea, embroidery on the walls of my life. Those walls are lined with Korean, Japanese, and Polish poems, cultures whose rich poetry continues to inspire me.
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