Thatched houses of the ancient greats,

crushed letters carved on the cool laterite

the sour and sweetness of the wild berries

and the chipped smell of the fish curry, her grandma used to make are still sound and sweet.

A blink of her eye,

and there's a swish-the air.

No thunder. No lightning, but

there's a girl, I see

in pigtails, beautiful like the winter sun

drifting in her yellow skirt like the laburnum tree swaying in the wind

carrying gently,

the roots of the Malabar melastome

supporting the cool drops of the monsoon,

to her eyes

and she would smile

as the drop sinks into her eyes carved with kohl,

as if the forgotten drop of stories squeezes, the secrets of the sky, the sparrows, and the wind

into the sole gospel, she held onto-her eyes.

She would call it a childhood fascination during the monsoons in her village in Kerala.

'The people were perfect'
...