Evocation
The pillows on my bed
Are not stuffed with cotton.
They are stuffed with
My mother’s old sarees
And lots of other childhood memories.
The picture hanging there on the wall
Is still full of vigour and charm.
The nail hammered into the wall
Ten years ago with precision
Appears rusty yet very strong
Unlike decaying minds
And constipated thoughts.
The flower vase gifted
To my aunt by us
Is a part of the soil now
In their backyard.
It hasn’t lost its shape
Just the colour has faded
And scratches have deepened.
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