Chintu's father died the night he turned thirteen.
He couldn't cry; he was too naive for that.
His mother kicked him out of her troubles
with her cracked heels, yet, they spent
a miserable life together.
She bought him fancy t-shirts from Shoppers Stop
but re-stitched her old salwars;
His teenage was spent on the steps
of our apartment's corridors, crying his heart out,
listing troubles that were partly true.
He loved his mother in an unusual way.
He never massaged that back that carried
a bag pack of problems or rubbed her weary feet
that were tired of walking alone, but he blew away
his first salary on an expensive spa.
She was too happy to be annoyed.
The friction in their relation never died;
though it produced bags of heat.
At twenty four, when his mother died, Chintu tied them up
and sat beside this bonfire of memories.
Note--Salwar – Indian women’s wear
Nivedita N (Divenita Er), a Hyderabadi, is an unschooled student of poetry and prose. She writes to make sense of the chaotic world around through her stories and poetry. Among her other interests, she loves enjoying the world of printing, publishing and editing. She blogs at: nnivedita.com. Currently she resides in Wisconsin, soaking in the warmth of its people and the onset of Spring.