My grandmother has an almirah
My grandmother has an almirah in the corner of her red tiled dining room Where she stores her years in bits and pieces Like shopping receipts Tagged to rusty hairpins and broken mirrors. She sits on the floor and pulls out the lower drawers every other day, eagerly as if she yearns to find, among treasures withheld in small rubber-banded newspaper packs, A baby, she misplaced years aback. Her sarees dry washed and folded are on the upper decks Where, in-between bosoms ironed she hid her market savings for her new found culinary taste From across the street end bake house. Her deserted desires of fleshly warmth and cravings carnal tarnished and disguised as jasmine knots for the backyard demigod. When she dies They will clad her in one of those wedding silks and suffocate her In that unused dusty smell That day she will get her garlands back Fresh and heavy on her worn out heart. They will choke her way with stinking sweat and incense dope