when days were mangoes, I sliced open a Sun
slid one half over the horizon
and kept the other in my pocket
pulp, juice, smell, innocence
I was copying my grandfather – his kameez pockets
were always full of jaggery
the mango seed, I scraped clean with my tongue, my teeth
and kept it hidden from everyone
seeds are trees, my grandfather used to say
Nature’s treasure chests, as precious as bees
My grandfather was a man of few words, many grunts and countless Ahas!
If his Ahas were a soundtrack, they’d be trending on Insta reels
he didn’t use labels to store the seeds, why force boundaries?
anything is a possibility. he kept them in jars; like jewels
but knew when to plant which
he read soil seasons like the roots of ancient trees
Mitti—soil—a man of the soil. The soil man. Soiled man;
dirty fingernails, muddy shoes, soil stains on salwar-kameez; pocket rims—filthy
when he died, overnight
his garden shrunk (turned into a terracotta pot)
the men, his heirs; inheritors of his DNA, his land—
my father and his brothers, couldn’t decide
how to dice up their father’s land
being the eldest, my father inherited the terracotta pot
in a blink, I grew up
alone on my father’s bit of land
memories don’t always keep
they drip, decay, turn rancid
one day, a mango tree coursed through confines
of terracotta lips, hips and produced two mangoes
the neighbours came to congratulate the man of the house for achieving such a feat
in a city cemented in concrete where only the showy
flowerbeds were allowed to breathe
“’tis a miracle!” they tweeted
“all the seasons of soil are lost.” everyone agreed
and left one by one to watch cricket, news – each to own screen
the day the two tart and green mangoes showed up,
(and when we were alone)
we coiled our roots hanging loose from our root chakras
(activated on yoga mats)
in our soft, clean hands and stood around
the round, terracotta pot
desperate to plug ourselves in—to renew, to recharge
I was on my period, my mother on her menopause
and my father looked utterly lost