My Amma Writes and other poems by Devarya Singhania

Appa-Amma

I saw Amma break her cup

in which she would take her green tea–

Sick of lemons and anything yellow,

she threw away Appa’s marigolds–

Married into gold, she’d thought way back when,

But Appa lost it all,

But Appa never cared for the jewels,

And Appa begged her to do the same.

But Appa–

But Appa last month became too silent–

refused to snore, refused to shout.

He who would leave his saliva on pillows, reek of cardamom,

exhaled one day a new, stinky breath onto Amma–

A quiet breath–

Whoosh,

And all the househelp were stunned to see his mouth dry.

But Amma didn’t like anything yellow no more–

and on his hips she saw a pool of yellow that morning.

On his forehead she saw another patch of yellow–

Whitish, puffy yellow–

a leak which turned blue on his lips.

Three weeks ago I saw all my aunts visit,

they called him a strong man, and Amma a stronger woman–

but Amma still wouldn’t take her tea.

They got her marigolds in garlands, and gave me a white kurta,

because all men had to wear it–

Usually only Appa wore it with his yellow pajamas.

The househelp stood stunned, as Amma threw away the teabags–

and on the shelves, where the cup in which Amma-Appa would share their tea,

now remains none.

My Amma Writes

She told me that the chairs at her home creek nowadays

and that they wobble when she tries to let herself sit–

In both her hands there are canes which embrace the veins

but not like those she’d buy for me during Christmas–

The tea doesn’t seem to reach her doorstep because,

because the gardens in Kolkata stopped calling her–

In her hymns to gods while dressed in garlands there are tears

which get stuck on her face–

O deity to whom she prays,

when you demand litres of water and milk, she does carry,

when you ask her to fast, she doesn’t eat,

she walks to your places barefoot, with rocks in her feet,

So why do you bless her not when her wrists shiver?

On that chair she’s put needles which

prick her when he lifts them–

they are stubborn,

they don’t like to get threaded.

Her wrists are lined with stories

of Monday through Friday–

of ancient Mondays and present Fridays–

She becomes Amma for two days when she writes,

She forgets to be one some months.

She forgets. She didn’t in those younger years.

Appa didn’t return home that long ago September,

He slept quietly, underneath the blanket of the hospital room where he was born,

and since alone her voice has creaked,

with shivers waking her body, when she lets herself sit.

Grandpa’s Vines

Last Tuesday I watched the rain

stop before it hit my window sill

and get lost in the moss of Grandpa’s vines–

Tears of the sill which barely dripped

which touched the vine’s fruits

for the decayed flowers were used before

as garlands for Grandpa’s rites.

Tale of the Drunk Monk

O’er hills and peaks,

there’s an ill, stout, laughing monk.

Sage, wise, perhaps drunk.

Sons, Brothers and Dads

He was come; fair, shaven and curly hair.

On grandma’s lap through tears, laid for naps.

Eyebrows floating amidst the early wrinkles, and surly

Grins which still see me today.

Always missing an incisor that grandma found in bitten apples, but always smitten

For the lisp in his laughs. She showed his youth to me in photographs

Without colour, and without his brother who arrived four years later.

Short, and both were stout, but grandma even in her shouts, was to always peer.

The brother, dad’s another from their mother, young and nefarious.

In his arrival his eyebrows lay askew, and grandma knew

Of his pranks to come. Grandmum quiet in her adoration,

Quieter was dad, in his glares to his brother’s mess.

Less was said when uncle broke the glass of dad’s first car

Or when he misplaced dad’s -his bhaiya’s- toy car in the fair, cared

Dad not then and behind his glare hid the laughter at the kid

That was his brother.

On days when grandpa’s slumber awoke him to anger, shown on his umber

Forehead home to a few hair, dad shunned his brother to another

Room and fought with grandpa over the economics of our nauseous office.

Uncle understood not but sought not to see his brother cry.

The grunts which uncle saw oft, in the late evenings turned into cries that were soft,

And through August’s rain or April’s heat, for bhaiya’s bleats

He ran outside and got bhutta for bhaiya to eat.

When uncle was at home when nine or thirteen, a crying bhaiya was rarely seen.

Grandma today in these photographs must remember two calling codes,

Sleep past midnight to talk to the younger, and to feed the older’s hunger

Must rise to cook before sunrise. Only quieter in her adoration, she’s still an audience

To grandpa’s ire which is dire to dad.

In dad’s visit to his room’s today though, his another knows it not, nor is ought

To run outside in Michigan’s snow on roads which serve not bhutta,

But the streetfood his bhaiya never liked. And his whimpers are heard, not stirred

Away by the company of his brother.

Thirty not thirteen and uncle seems fatigued,

He was come with energy, with a notorious squint. An imprint

For his brother and grandma to identify. But in glistens of a light smile over calls

Today, he cannot break glass or lose his bhaiya’s toys.

Grandma in dad’s slumber tells me her adoration for them,

And in these photos, she compares my hair’s resemblance.

And on this afternoon, on grandma’s lap through her tears,

I lay, for a nap.

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About the Poet:

Devarya Singhania sleeps when he doesn’t write. He studied literature and creative writing. You’ll find him spralwed in his tank top and shorts year-round, annotating nonfiction on race or fiction he finds funny.