There is a narrow lane that leads to her home.
I learnt that she is no more.
but in the interstices that lay between the lane, door. hers and mine
I have discovered a spot that is full of memories-hers and mine.
Her face is always there.
It was there as I was playing a little postman in the afternoons
passing love letters between her son and his lady love.
It was there when I had folded my skirt a little above knee
and feared what if she quotes from the qoran if I meet her on the street.
It was there in the little box of pearl jewels she put in my palm.
I miss that warmth.
She forced us to sing Iqbal on the Republic Day function
She would order tents,food and celebrate in the street.
She would draw my mother into doing very crazy things.
A picnic on a hot summer afternoon in the Delhi Zoo to say the least.
May her soul rest in peace.
May she smile down on us reading this.
-March 29th 2011.
I don't want to pretend that this is a poem.
It is just an attempt at saving her memories.
