Praniti Gulyani’s first haiku collection ‘The Dust Still Holds A Fingerprint’
is published by John E WordSlinger's PoetryTrain
for a while my garden
mimics the night
I have cried many a tear, but never a tear of this kind. A heavy weighted tear, that pulls down the eye lid, and the eye lash, but barely touches the white sands of my eyes. A tear that fills up within, but does not slide down the cleft of my cheek, and just teeters on the absolute tip of it.
It has always been words and words alone that ignite tears within me. I have always cried because of someone, but not for someone. And, I wouldn't call this crying. It's just a sudden, uncanny wetness, and hollowness, emptiness, the feeling of being numb, injected by the permanent anesthesia of failed emotion.
Yet, I know deep within, that this is so, so much more than momentary moisture.
wondering how to mourn
Little girls come into this world as small bundles of pink. Maybe, I too, was a pink bundle. But, I have thought often about what did my mother think of me when I was placed in her arms, red faced and crying. Did she know that in her arms, she held a child who would grow up to be no less than a druggie, a hard core alcoholic, drunk on words and poetry? Did she know that I would not be the sensible student that she was, I would fail in math, while she had topped, I would be baggy and careless, while she had always been perfectly fitted and neatly combed? Did she know that this howling infant would come up to her fifteen years later, and say that "I don't like economics, maths does not interest me, I have decided, I am going to study literature and become a writer. I am sure... "
Maybe she was shocked that day. How could her daughter take to arts, and be so sure of her decision? And that too, so early? Was I depressed? Was I a recluse? Or even worse, was I socially awkward?
A day ago, I saw her with an anthology in her hands. One of my haiku were published in there. I see her finger softly touch my name. The gesture is ever so gentle and ever so slow. It is just as though she is brushing a curl away from my forehead, all those nights I spent in her lap, burning with fever....
"This is... " she says, her voice breaking. I see a tear drop off her cheek, and softly land of my name. It is a momentary magnifying glass, as it falls on my name, making my name seem all the more bigger....
her world jerks
to a halt