I dreamt of you last night.  First time since you left.

I’m sorry I didn’t call often enough when I had the chance to.
To say “I love you” and ‘Thank you”.
But you know that, right?  Where you are now you know everything.  Which is why I don’t feel stupid writing on a blog to you.  And in English on top of that.  I know on whichever plane you are at this time you will understand what I am writing down here.

You in your black saree coming to fetch me from school for my first trip to the dentist.
Gripping my wrist to cross the road.
Crushed against your bosom and being sung to sleep.
the smell.
Braiding my hair so tight I used to think it would never get undone. and that would be after applying the dose of coconut oil.
it’s ‘deodorant’. not ‘odorant’.
And ‘Anil’, not ‘Sunil’.
‘Mihir’, not ‘Mimir’. hah.
My initiation to tea.  tea in my milk bottle.
your dhal.
the smell of your homemade pottu.
the feel of your hand in mine. with that gentle rythmic tap of your forefinger.
being fed by your hand.
Ponds and Bien-Etre.
Your sunglasses in your fridge.
Mixed-fruit jam.

I have yet to understand how come you are really gone.


One Comment on “#31”

  1. shlok says:

    Sunglasses in ‘fridge’ ???

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