Across the paddy field
she lives in a house of her father’s bones
The local wind lulls overhead
Dusting the parapet of an old, old house
on the cemented floor, hard on her head
An orange heat comes in waves
Red, yellow, rusted, like her memories;
A crow caws out, a tree, left bare, of
low lying fruits for low lying lives
She carries the bundled wood loftily
Wadding with ducks, dark marooned
water rippled around her strained ankles,
Cracked earth follows her threadbare feet
Blackened wares, a low fire crackles (& spits)
Local crickets chirp a song, solemnly
she claps along, holding on to her tassels
Red, yellow, rusted; like the tap in the back, it
Never cries, sometimes sighs, but never cries
The house feels particularly lived in today
No dust on the parapets, no crows, some fruits
Blackened woods, blackened tassels, ashen floor
Tap is silent, no cries, no sighs, crickets lured in
by the green grazed sky, ducks lounging in the backwater
She is in the backyard, digging holes, earthworms
Crawling up her green, blue, pink tassels, she
plucks a bone from her feet, the cemented one of course,
Burying it deep, piling on mud, fallen leaves, seething earthworms
Pressing with her feet, ankle deep, no ripples, just red rivulets
Ashen ringlets around her hair, creeping around; enshrouded in smoke
No more her father’s house, now she lives in a Home of her bones.
Siddhant Singh Chauhan is filmmaking student and sporadic writer with a heavy literary bent. His audio-visual productions and writing have featured on various platforms. He has also organized academic seminars and discourses such as Women in Art at TIFA Pune.
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