Enduring ages, as Grandma said –
The cupboard a gift to her as a bride – ingenuous,
with apple cheeks,
in solah shringaar
as from a yellow dusty picture
preserved in a corner of an empty drawer
like dried turmeric
how it feels like a clandestine affair,
between the wooden racks and
the age old silk sarees, colours so vibrant
as molten crayons –
beet purple,
peach rust,
blue as the skin of Blue God, the
halitosis of naphthalene smell,
swish and tickle of garments
In ancient, rusty hangers –
the golden boxes storing mysteries of silver coated
, oxidized jewels –
The armlets,
bracelets, Tyra and anklets,
When the grand brown doors close, do they whisper softly,
gently fabricating lore –
Of how they had been adorned by their mistress
Gracefully
, or do the sarees sing hymns, - deodorized in reverence,
Perfumed in the essence of pounding hearts on wedding days,
Or sweet lyrical lullabies from mystic nights – eons ago
How the cupboard sustains –
Ravishing repository of rapturous remembrance
How the tastes, smells, pleated emotions
amalgamated in the treasures
Breathe like life
How they live, hidden behind veils
like an enigmatic forest
flamboyant, fairy – tailed.
S. Rupsha Mitra is a student of Psychology from India. She loves to read and write poetry. Her works have appeared in Indian Periodical, Blue Marble Review, and Hebe Poetry.
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