barrenhood

beg, bhindi. sing for light and water.
first the sun’s laughter arrested at the building’s edge
like a wish on an eyelash.
then the rain lobbied by cement lofts and tin roofs
so what trickles down is the logic of water, not its kiss.

the truth is, bhindi. a mock of growbags and pots with holes in them.
my grandma gave my mother fifteen seeds out of which four sprouted
and one of them became the jaggery of her pride, bhindi of her eye.
now you lie like a knot of phlegm and snot
when a garden’s dream sneezed in its mask.

how small it all is relative to grandma’s garden
where the seeds came from
and how small that was when held against the memory of the field
that never recovered from ockhi’s tears.
no subsidised pesticide able to sign the soil with an earthworm’s calligraphy.

the truth is bhindi. i envy the way my mother doted on you
the way she conducted your shower, namakarana rice ceremony,
wrote om on your green tongue all in the duration of one phone call to grandma.
i envy how you don’t know, yet are.
if a tree fell in a forest it becomes more trees. can i say the same about us?
languages must research your yellow and green life
to learn how to say something and mean it.

the truth is, bhindi. both my parents were presumed dead on arrival.
my friend is a triplet who was a quadruplet in the womb.
my neighbours could recreate the city by tracing lines
between the temples and fertility clinics they’ve been pilgrims to.
my grandpa had even started digging a grave in the wall.
i beg, bhindi. keep going, carry on.
as you crumple into a strangled brown scream
let me tell you how abruptly she cut the call
when she realised that eleven hadn’t sprouted.
i beg you to keep singing, now that you know.