Bolivia

By Komal Aandhiwal

Did I ever tell you that your eyes are a map,

and I would lose myself if you ever turned away?

You tell me that the air of Bolivia smells like home.

Home, like how children rush down when

Mama makes their favourite lemonade on a hot sultry afternoon, 

and your hands feel like the relief these children feel, 

gulping down drinks, many of them.

Do you know, the crumbs of your cookie are still

tucked safely in my napkin? 

Memories and Prayers, I keep you there. 

Everyday, I remember you there.

That which breaks into crumbs are memories.

I hope I don’t break you away, into just them.

You are greying, the evening reminds me,

I never knew grey could be 

this overwhelming, this breathtaking.

I hope you don’t turn into my grief before I turn into yours.

I hope we never have to turn into grief. 

But you know. You know. 

The miners are yet to show up for work.

I feel I am yet to show up for you. 

I notice you and somewhere, I want to do more.

Bolivia will always be beautiful. 

You said, I wait for you to come down here someday.

It is a cold day but you are perennial warmth.

I am but a rain cloud wanting to pour.

This sharing is what we both need, you said

But you are wrong. I need it more than you.

Our meeting is a prayer answered.

I hope it wasn’t the last one, I say.

I have a thousand questions, another thousand prayers.

You say, I no longer care if mine are answered.

I met you. I have you. I now know it will be easier.

And I swear, that was the hardest time I had, searching for words

While you just smiled, as if you already heard them.

And I swear your smile is the sight of a thousand sunflowers blossoming

And I swear Bolivia was never this beautiful, until now.

And I swear I’ve never sworn this much in sixty-five years.

And I swear I silently tuck another corner of this napkin,

praying I could swear another sixty-five years more,

praying you would be ever so kind to me, those sixty-five years more.

By Komal Aandhiwal