Comments about Shruti Das
I saw you mother
grow out of your silver hair and painful knees
to scale those seventy-five years
that you had left behind,
to don a frilly frock and
squabble with your little brother
over your favourite rag doll or
those unripe mangoes, jealously guarded,
while your mother was away attending to domestic things.
I heard music,
Sweeter than any heard ever before,
as your voice cadenced around memories
of your childhood secretly held
over seventy lost Springs.
I saw you, Mother,
rise out of your tired body
-slightly hunched with cares ...