I Am Me

A note about Changing Time

I write, erase, rewrite Erase again, then, a flower blooms. Hokusai

I could see the raindrops on the leaves of the Jamun plant. The journey from the clouds to the leaves and the many poems that happened. I could feel the magic. I shifted the chair next to the window and wondered about the coming days. The not-so-easy life I could see it looking back.

The slender branches of the Jamun plant I could see them swaying with the breeze. That time of the day when the colours start fading in the sky and a darker hue embraces the clouds. The city light quietly waking the night and my own thoughts ready to create ripples on the page. Morning, the song was different. I held my grandmother’s quilt and closed my eyes. Stories and that greed to cling to them. The pink shade of the quilt, the gray clouds, the tea on the table, and the book of poems like a comfort bowl for me to deep dive and forget the real life. Maybe for an hour or so, I forgot. I was somewhere else.

Maybe in my hometown in that home which would always be crowded with people and the kitchen would always be alive. I wonder how my mother and aunts managed. Knowing the story would be the same the next day. The burden of stories, the familiar fragrance, the starless nights, the affair with the moon, the kulhad chai, the sugar-free tea, the changes, the memories, and the poem.

But I am happy with this version of me. I know I have changed. But change that leads to mental peace will always be good. I am free to walk into a poem and walk out with a story — isn’t that the most beautiful part of being a writer? I am me. And the best part — I feel complete.