How tender was the age of six
When Mejda set the trend
Put Chhoton’s hand in mine
Said, “This brother is your friend”
The rhythm of our childish hands
Melding seamlessly with our minds
The dhak beat and the kashar toll
Spun the eternal thread that binds
How fragrant were those misty dawns
When Dida and I were flower girls
Picking shewlis with vermilion stalks
Dew teardrops glistening on the whorls.
Buckets full of khicudi and labda
That we trudged around and served
On sweltering days and breezy nights
When laughter was never curbed
The corner seat for chandi chanting
Where readers changed with clock chimes
Little did we envision in our content
That some will get plucked by time
In a distant land across an ocean
A universe apart from home
Those faces flash before my eyes
While the memories silently roam.
I have no flowers, O my mother
No garlands to adorn your feet
Only these pictures from my soul
I weave together and offer thee.
