Dead

Contributor: Ananya S Guha

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Three times I died
that evening when
the teak tree in Grandmother's
house was cut, felled into pieces
dead.
Or the pine trees in the college
where I studied, shading us
in green light, broken into pieces
they heaved, and the light vanished
broke between my knees
as I clasped the bench sitting on
in the canteen they laughed
urbanization, let the green, the blue
all hue go from our lives
with smattering colours
brick and mortar
I watched as a little child
would look at a monster
awe, reverence ping of change
ping ping ping.
Little Lotta, Hansel and Gretel
of childhood, come back
into my hill torn body
wounded but not bloodied.
I love clours that keep me
floated for a while
like prisms changing
like the chameleon shading
flood lights
I died four, five seven times
as the hills became bare
almost nude
I would not worship
only rain washed hills and plum trees
but the plum trees and peach trees also
vanished from my orchard
now kneaded bare
they stand dead
to tell stories of the dead
like a faded house with pale colours
yellow paint, coated, withering tarnished
smelling hollow smells, decrepit
like shadowy past.
Smell life in past get a tang
an aroma of the forests and streams
with monoliths like a ghost's sideburns
standing erect. Beheaded.


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