House Of Warmth

By Ilisha Bhagwat

My elder sister told tell me, when we were little

About how Aaji used to tuck us in bed

In chilly winters of Vancouver, where we recently shifted,

After she got too old to handle herself.

She carried a tiny book

of her own bedtime stories,

reading a new story every day.

Today, it’s been 7 years since I last saw her.

And every year on this day,

We all visit our place in Thikwadi, a small village in Konkan.

Our house was like graphic art,

With vibrant colours, compact yet homely.

Aaji’s scent still lingered around the house.

The love and affection she carried all her life,

Were the spirits of our house,

Which warmed us up at night.

By Ilisha Bhagwat