scorching salt
waist-deep in the surf
tears evaporate—
a forty-year-old bond
merging into the waters
Saturday morning. In turns, I feel the elements in my palm—fire, water, earth. People; a small crowd of them—some stay, some leave. I come back home to a solitary lamp, silence, and my little one. The configuration of the home is irreversibly altered. The air, silent in contemplation. Even the water tastes more of copper.
Decades ago. The memory of Saturday evenings. Amma and me at the Chandogya Upanishad class. Ruffling my three-year-old’s hair, I recite the dhyana shloka, as we gaze together at the distant gopuram, a V of geese emerging.
spring breeze
my son asks me where
grandma went—
a cluster of white clouds
slowly drifting north
A year in passing. Amma’s first wake. I recall Chapter 5, verse 5. Fading daylight. Guruji continued to talk of the soul's journey across realms before it assumed a physical body.
greying clouds
on our faces skyward
cool raindrops—
we nod to each other
through the hush of a drizzle
Second anniversary. The scent of pink roses and sweet marjoram. My son says it smells just like Grandma’s prayer room.
sweet pongal
on a banana leaf—
my son tastes
the aroma of camphor
melting in warm rice
Three years. Winter evening. Warm empty bowls with scraps of red carrot in the kitchen sink, floating around in water. Family time under ivory lights.
photo album—
my son touches grandma
through glassine
i take his palm on my skin
to grandma’s heartbeat
Bio: Vaishnavi Ramaswamy
