I look for her
in the smallest bites of kachori
browned in mustard oil
that tensely bubbles through and through
splaterring little drops in every corner
as if she were sprinkling holy water
early in the morning
before the house awoke
into groggy footsteps and
heady frogmarches
I look for her
in the brass diyas
I light everyday
and remember how we
would huddle near her feet;
scaled by sugar in toffees
that came in dozens and scores for a paisa
and listen to her
recite the Chalisa
through the looking glass sliding along her nose
for hours together
I look for her
in the Harsingars
on my morning walks,
sprawling lazily----
bare on the topsoil,
casting around wet earth
as if tired from all
the waiting and wondering; and basking and being...
as though
with a patience that is disposable
I look for her
in the half- matted rangolis
at the doorstep,
personifying a love
and giving life to a faith that
somehow strung
together
hearts
as they sipped
ginger tea in the backyard
gossiping and dealing
and quaffing and reminiscing
I look for her
in Geetanjali by Rabindranath Thakur,
put on her reading glasses
so that every sky that he paints
is looked at right,
just the way she would have wanted
me to understand,
tucked tightly in her brown shawl
that smells like her
and that had once
tucked revolutions under its breath,
and I feel like her,
I feel like her,
when I stop looking for signs
for I feel like the art that speaks,
and the art that listens,
the art that is her.