Colors and Stories
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'
she would say,
'they were the sunflowers blooming
amidst a doom
singing their moods out
who could stand chattering with the sun
for hours
standing the gloom, blood, and faith.'
Her every story holds colours
Like the vivid faces of the Kathakali dancers
who themselves have a certain story to tell...
I see,
colours narrate stories, not people
and my grandma's tamarind tree has it all
the giggles from her hide n seek with her 'kootukaari',
tears from the faith that bound her parents
fear from the days of sin, and
a sweet pucker from the tamarind above.
Her rocking chair gives a rock
every second she puts together a story
and I would rest on her lap
with closed eyes, watching the neelakurinji bloom
and one day
while she is moving her hands-
the lovely bones as I call them,
through my dark tangled hair
just like when she used to pluck
mogras for me
from the close-knitted shrub,
she says,
'The swift.
It realized it had to leave
Its long glossy wings made a different sound then
the sound of goodbye
which I haven't heard since '
The flowers turned into my grandma's dulcet
voice;
'Would I be there as one of the feathers
in your wings when you grow one?'
It was a little quiet. Warm. Mushy. The air.
I smiled and said-
'Bodies and memories; faint. die. Not colours.'
© Aarya kareepadath
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'
she would say,
'they were the sunflowers blooming
amidst a doom
singing their moods out
who could stand chattering with the sun
for hours
standing the gloom, blood, and faith.'
Her every story holds colours
Like the vivid faces of the Kathakali dancers
who themselves have a certain story to tell...
I see,
colours narrate stories, not people
and my grandma's tamarind tree has it all
the giggles from her hide n seek with her 'kootukaari',
tears from the faith that bound her parents
fear from the days of sin, and
a sweet pucker from the tamarind above.
Her rocking chair gives a rock
every second she puts together a story
and I would rest on her lap
with closed eyes, watching the neelakurinji bloom
and one day
while she is moving her hands-
the lovely bones as I call them,
through my dark tangled hair
just like when she used to pluck
mogras for me
from the close-knitted shrub,
she says,
'The swift.
It realized it had to leave
Its long glossy wings made a different sound then
the sound of goodbye
which I haven't heard since '
The flowers turned into my grandma's dulcet
voice;
'Would I be there as one of the feathers
in your wings when you grow one?'
It was a little quiet. Warm. Mushy. The air.
I smiled and said-
'Bodies and memories; faint. die. Not colours.'
© Aarya kareepadath