The Champa Flower

By Pooja Pagare

She picked up her watch and slid it over her wrist,

Applied her brown shade of Revlon lipstick

and knotted her hair into a sleek bun.

Correctly placed all her pleats in order

and pinned her pallu to the side.

Oblivious to all her taunts

That deemed her of being an unfit mother,

she paused at the door

Enveloping me into a tight hug.

Our routine, Her solace.

She hurried off to work

tending to strangers' newborns

All the while missing her own.

You cooked, You cleaned,

You mopped, You mocked.

I stared at you in wonder,

as you gave meaning to the words

grace and strength.

Never once did you belittle my choices,

You let Me be. You let Me shine.

Even when my low cut dress

had You gasping for air.

An episode of Monica Geller's rapid cleaning

followed by a grin my way,

was a sly dig at my extremities.

You never accepted gifts,

Except one.

"Get me some Champa flowers".

'Why those?'

"They remind me of the streets of Matunga,

Simpler times and Eternal Bliss".

'Cool. Done'

Every time I messed up,

handful of those did the trick.

So when you bid adieu, I knew your wish.

As I witnessed your urn being immersed

Into the sea,

I saw the same sight

through glassy eyes this time.

You pinning up your saree while neatly tucking

your pleats in place.

A watch in hand,

Your sweet scent of Nivea cream,

finished off with your signature brown lipstick.

You announced,

"Bye Bantu. Don't be naughty okay? Ta-ta."

*I caught your flying kiss for the last time*

By Pooja Pagare