Roots

By Yashika Taneja

As I sit looking out of the window

Early in the morning

Onto the heart of the city

Traffic lanes like arteries of the heart

Carved between still waters on one side

Surrounded by tall sky scrapers

And in the middle by mistake

A well kept stretched park like space

Tall light posts bathing it in their white glow

Starts above in the half dark sky

With just a hint of dawn to come

Reminds of the childhood days

When my grandfather would take me along

In the early morning bird songs

He, bathed, fresh in his off-white attire

I, sleepy, warm, unwilling to accompany

He would hold me by my hand

And start chanting his prayers

Reluctant to leave the cosy sleepy house

I would look at my grandmother

Bathed, fresh, brewing tea in the kitchen

To welcome my father out of the snores

While my mother busy to begin the chores

That would keep us all taken care of all day

The snores I still hear my husband taking

But no other old nostalgic sounds come my way

The sound of the hot brew poured

Merging with the clink of the spoon in cup

The hiss of boiling milk on stove

The fragrances of cooking wafting from the kitchen

The creaking of opening and closing of doors

The dripping of water in the sink

Some footsteps outside across the veranda

People stepping out early morning

My grandfather would hold me by my hand

And we would step out of the mesh covered door

That banged and shut as we left it behind

Stepping down the half-lit stairway

Where a cow or dog would look at us

With eyes wide open in its temporary abode

I would clutch his kurta tight in my fist

And try to hide behind him

When his secure arms would pick me up

Holding on to the steel carrier in the other hand

That we took along to bring us milk

From the milk booth far across the half-lit park

He would walk past any dogs or cows

That were a part of everyday life

Looking more or less scary to me

Depending on the day’s light

Then near the park he would put me down

Hold on again to my hand

Which I would slide into his pocket

To steal a coin or two jingling inside

He would catch my hand inside and laugh out aloud

Both of us lost in our secret world

Where existed in the world no doubt

Wafting across the smell of morning flowers

Mogra, jasmine, roses

Through half green patches, half brown barren path

We would go on listening to his poetry with proses

He would tell me chants of all kinds of gods

I still don’t know if they exist

But no doubt entered my mind then

Their presence I had never resisted

Reaching the milk booth, he would buy the tokens

Which I would grab and run to the machine

The most exciting game of my life

Was to insert the coin and enjoy

The running stream of milk sheen

After inserting all the five it would lose its charm

I would suddenly again hold on to his arm

When nothing else interested me around

I listened what he would be speaking

And slowly we would walk back home

By now the sun would start streaking

We could hear the temple bells ring

And feel the hustle bustle of life

A look outside again onto the city

Brings me back to my being a wife

By Yashika Taneja