Tell Me Another Story

By Diya Singh

There was a time when my grandmother would regale me 

With stories and myths of yore - 

Ornamented by her sweet tongue, 

To turn the slow afternoons in Bangalore into 

Jungles filled with thick undergrowth, running water in the rivers, 

And the distant cawing of birds above the canopy. 

Suddenly, the cars outside would have transformed into 

Large, bellowing elephants riding through the 

Thick green forest and the odd chatter on the road

Would morph into the sweetest bansuri. 

My mind would buckle and kneel before 

These vast kingdoms that my aji had laid out - 

As vivid and as real as the lines across her palms. 

Her words would paint a thousand pictures, 

Each more magnificent and surreal than I could describe. 

The sourness of amla, the sweetness of an aam and 

The spice of the hari mirch. 

Everything she said would will itself into reality, 

And I would reap the fruits that she had so delightfully sown. 

I sat by her last night, twenty years older but none the wiser;

She spun me a new story this time - 

Small tales from her childhood, from my mothers’.

Scenes from a distant world of memories

That welcomed my mother and her mother with a warm embrace,

One I could neither see, nor feel. 

And as I watched my grandma’s eyes well with tears, 

I could feel that same crushing weight in my chest -

The burden of remembering. 

The taste of the water, Diya. 

The water from the well in my house. 

The water of my village, how sweet it was. 

I’ll never be able to forget the taste of it. 

And now, its absence will haunt me undyingly. 

The water from my grandmother’s house, 

Ambrosia and nectar I was deemed unfit to taste. 

How sweet it was. With each word she spoke, I could almost taste it - 

I nearly deciphered all the notes as they danced across my tastebuds;

Ghost particles lit up on the edge of my tongue. 

Ah! Now I can see. 

How sweet it is. How sweet it could have been.

By Diya Singh