A GRANDMA STORY

One day,
Grandma woke up
in the wee hours of
the morning.
The entire village
still in the grip of
slumber, musical silence,
ornamented by the anklets of
musing crickets
audible though.
Locked in the
cool embrace of
the ambience, her hair
too resembling a bunch of white cloud
Grandma in pure white, stepped down
to the foreground
walked toward the well,
drew water
bucket-full
washed faces, legs
hands,
and returned.
Grandma,
unlocked the door in the middle,
stepped inside,
her room, her empire of purity.
The scent of camphor, holy-ash,
sandal sticks, curd, oil lamp
all arranged
with poetic felicity.
Took up the oil lamp
oil poured to the very edge
and matchbox,
came outside and
lit she the lamp,
in the cool moving hugs
of the surroundings and
light flickered and danced.
Her skinny, wrinkled body,
very much visible in the darkness,
like the white sky upabove.
Sat she nearby
the lamp,
sat she cross-legged,
palms folded across
the chest
Grandma's prayer
in whispering tones
began.
Her eyes half-closed,
as if in meditation,
concentrated she
only on her favourite God.
Wee hours ticked
past
black blanket slowly
faded, faded and faded
for the fresh light of the day,
entire village, entire homes'
gradually began to
open their glowing eyes,
conch-shell blown
repeatedly
at the temple infront
and she felt like
it beckoning her,
woke up she
stepped down
walked past the
bridge, the paddy-fileds ,
briskly, briskly
chanting prayers
all the way
and melted into the oblivion.
My naughty Grandma...
Recall me the days,
I sat beside
her on the floor,
during the mornings
while she used to churn curd,
narrating,
parables, fables,
messages conveyed...
all bygone days
never to come again.........