By Devi Dang
Picture Source: Pinterest.com
Tring tring
Pick up the phone, will you?
It’s Grandma, you pick up.
Tring tring
I’m washing the dishes.
I’m not picking up.
Give it to your father.
Tring tring
Hello, Sat Sri Akal Maa Ji.
Sat Sri Akal, Puttar.
How are you?
You both still meet each other, right?
My grandmother was the pillar
Of a monument that wasn’t so strong
at all, whatsoever,
Of a monument that was cracked
almost broken, actually
from the harsh winds,
or an earthquake, was it?
Nonetheless, it had deep cracks,
this monument we sometimes called
family.
In this monument resided enmity,
two brothers, actually
Both fought to claim the monument
and both failed
leaving nothing but cracks
on what could have been
one of the wonders of the world.
These cracks made the pillar,
my grandmother, actually,
weak, or was it time?
Yes, I’m still on call.
No, we don’t meet each other..
Why not? You there?
Yes, I’m still on call.
Our views don’t match, Maa Ji.
But, you are brothers.
Yes, but we’re… you there?
Yes, I’m still on call.
We’re very different, Maa Ji.
So you’ll separate?
We can’t compromise on our lives.
Okay, but what about mine?
My grandmother was the pillar
which was the reason why
this monument was still
standing.
She wanted her sons to
renovate this monument
put some cement in those cracks.
This pillar stood on hope
and maybe some greed
that the brothers will
trust each other,
understand each other,
love each other.
But these brothers,
a total menace I tell you
brought some more equipment
to drill the cracks further.
The pillar crumbled,
slowly, became
decrepit.
No more calls from Grandma.
Why, father?
We’ll be flying to Delhi tonight.
No more calls from Grandma.
Even they’ll be coming.
Who’s they?
Your cousins, aunt, and uncle.
No more calls from Grandma.
She didn’t see her children together.
And do you regret that?
She could’ve gone happier.
Can you still make her happy?
My grandmother was the pillar
was, as in used to be,
but her hope
is, lingering in the air,
like perfume.
They don’t see it,
but they both can feel it,
breathe it.
But perfume isn’t cement
it cannot fill in the cracks,
it isn’t the pillar either.
But this perfume is hypnotic
it makes them nauseous,
both of them.
They had found something
in common.
They both had tried, relentlessly,
to keep each other away.
But my grandmother was better
at getting what she wants.
To read more such poetry, check out The Word.