Grandmother And Her Two Sons
I have taken this weight off,
the proverbial burden of responsibility
or irresponsibility, we call it whatever we will.
Once upon a time I sat on grandmother's lap
to listen to stories of ghosts, catcalls and her two sons
climbing up the wind, soaring skies after dying of poisonous
fumes of the stomach. The narrative, unreal, surreal blended
into my apostasy, my image of myth maker, teller of fables and lies!
The weight suddenly lessened, slowly in life, when I realized
that truths told were untold ( lies!)
Grandmother, her fabulous world were lies, until she died
at a ripe old age of hundred and two. I looked at her frail self,
and wondered how this frailty could cause a string of lies!
Fabulous, untold stories, of her two sons, flying across
when space crafts did not exist. Now I know.
I know, unexplored terrains, I know grandmother as a psychic
teller of tales. Fantasy.
I know, she is still climbing across untenanted skies.
Grandmother's ghost is real. The house in Guwahati
shackled with ominous ruins is as true, or false as
Grandmother's tales. Her rickety fingers still point
at me. Her narratives give me a lull, and then
sleepless nights. Her two sons, dying of cholera
are my dying assets. I still live. Grandmother, her two sons...
They were
twins.
Ananya S Guha
Shillong, INDIA.
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