Onam*- festivities and happiness,
Dresses in colour, TVs and fridges
Cars and bikes in a spending spree.
Respite from a life, lived mundane.

Onam, my first, without my mother
Forty-six Onams I spent with her.
Her age not counted in mouthfuls of rice1
Her last was a ball for the crow to eat.2

Onam- a week a year, from one to next
Sky so blue and fields so green.
Clouds have gone, weather is mild
Onam will come, the dead will not.

But trees do flower, waters do rise,
Hills turn green, despite the droughts.
They mightn’t be the same, yet they are,
Despite the deaths, life doesn’t end.

Somewhere, in some house, a baby is born,
Somewhere in a newborn, relives my mom.
I wouldn’t know her, I wouldn’t see her,
But somewhere, somehow, we would meet.

I’d hold her hand, touch her head,
Hold her cheek close to mine.
I’d sense her soul from the smell of her skin
The smell, the feel, of my mother’s milk.

I’d tell her I loved her,
Love, neither shown, never given.
I’d talk to her in words so sweet,
Bitter were those unto the last.

I’d hug her, with all warmth and love,
For never did I know the touch of her heart.
I cared for her with all my heart,
But walls did grow, watered with hate.

A horse, whipped, without reason,
A dog, kicked, howling in pain.
Whimpering in fear, uncomprehending,
Yet I took care unto her last.

Ah! Time! Come to a grinding halt,
Shift a lever in reverse mode.
Stop at the day when I sat on her lap,
Gave her a kiss and hugged her close-
And slept- as I did, once, in her womb.