How did I wait to be born?
By Biswajit Mishra

That summer must’ve been different

must have been hot, very hot

the only coolness lent by the

dimly lit room and the mud walls.

A cry to hard-stop the wait

a coconut, chopped from the palm

—uncertainty collapsed

into one of the outcomes;

how did they light up the house—

with wicker lamps, and

did they distribute sweets merrily?

Who can recount that for me?

I am running a bit behind with

those questions, even the greying

photos in those little frames

where the frame colour, keeping

in tune with photos and

memory, have faded for

the most part and I can’t recall

where those might or the

monsoon dampness has colluded

with time and returned them

to the elements;

I need to ask my brothers.

I can probably find a closure

to those questions one way

or the other but for the one

that will remain suspended

somewhere, where it must’ve

been before the air cycled

through my nostrils for the

first time in that afternoon

as I let out the agnostic cry:

how did I wait for the

arrival

or

departure!