UNTITLED

My grandmother cooks the most delicious kheer
Garnished with nuts and cashews. Fragile lacing of her
Childhood songs traced along in its cooking.
She hums lullabies, pushing pins in her impeccable jooda.
The coiffed white strands, grounded with the soap essence.
I come from Pindi, she tells me and hands over
Her old black and white pictures. She, draped in
A plain white dupatta and her pearls placed
Calculably right. Right over her v-neck kurta.

I am an emotionally deranged person sometimes. Over dramatic. Over surreptitious ..sometimes.
So I ask her, if she laments loosing
Her entire world in one night.
What was India , is Pakistan now. What was youth, is a puckered dough now
What were the strands of pearls, is a map of wrinkled sacs.
Her voice is still the melodious tone, although
Highly moderated by her sighs.
But she never replies to me and says she has always been like this..
She has always been ready to suspend her childhood
In a frozen haze. She has always lost her lovers in
Tickets to chastity. She has always raised grandchildren and helped
Them in home works.
So when finally she finds a little nook for herself...
She wails with her London settled sisters and celebrates the decay on phone. All alone.