This poem is dedicated to my mother and is an expression of how it felt to visit home without her being there.
Both Sides of the Cupboard
The cupboard still smells of her.
Naphthalene and dried neem,
a faint line of Pond’s Cold Cream,
and the soap she cut into slivers
so nothing went to waste.
Some things are neat and folded like her sarees
Starched cotton in straight rows.
Important papers in old envelopes,
no labels, but she knew which was which.
Like she was readying the house
for a journey she wouldn’t name.
And some things are chaotic...like life.
Unfinished projects breathing in the dark.
Half a sweater on the needles,
one sleeve done, the other waiting.
Old books dog-eared, journals from aeons ago,
news cuttings about events, occasions,
the win many years ago.
Almond shells in a jar for no reason,
a soft toy with one eye gone,
plastic flowers that she never liked to throw.
The mess, that the untrained eyes see
actually feelings, emotions, occasions curated and stored
over years
is closer to home than clean ever was.
She has a lovely terrace.
Full of adeniums — fat-bellied, stubborn,
flowers blooming when the calendar says no.
Flowers that arrive uninvited,
as if they answer to her and not the year.
Pink and white and wrong-month red.
They lean toward her window now,
petals unsure of the quiet.
They bow when the wind moves
like she did when she bent to remove a dry leaf.
This is what remains of anyone
Not the shape, but the residue.
A scent held in wood. A way of saving string.
The terrace that kept her hours
long after her hands left the watering can.
We’re all just keeping time for each other.
Then the time keeps itself.
Things thin out. They don’t end.
They change rooms.
I shut the door soft.
And keep the smell in, for now
Some things you keep.
Some things you learn to carry.
The cupboard still smells of her.
The adeniums still count in her time.
So the house still has a mother —
neat and chaotic,
held for a while,
then set down, gently.
