beg, bhindi. sing for light and water.

first the sun arrested at the building's edge

like a wish on an eyelash. then the rain

lobbied by cement lofts and tin roofs so what

trickles down is the logic of water, not its kiss.

the truth is, bhindi. a mock of growbags

and pots with holes in them. my grandma

gave my mother fifteen seeds out of which

four sprouted and one of them became

the jaggery of her pride, bhindi of her eye.

now you lie like a knot of phlegm and snot

when a garden's dream sneezed in its mask.

how small it all is relative to grandma's garden

where the seeds came from and how small that was

when held against the memory of the field

that never recovered from ockhi's tears.

no subsidized pesticide able to sign the soil

with an earthworm's calligraphy. the truth is

bhindi. i envy the way my mother doted on you

the way she conducted your shower, namakarana

rice ceremony, wrote om on your green tongue

all in the duration of one phone call to grandma.

i envy how you don't know, yet are. if a tree fell

in a forest it becomes more trees. can i

say the same about us? languages must research

your yellow and green life to learn how to say something

and mean it. the truth is, bhindi. both my parents

were presumed dead on arrival. my friend is a triplet

who was a quadruplet in the womb. my neighbors

could recreate the city by tracing lines between

the temples and fertility clinics they've been pilgrims to.

my grandpa had even started digging a grave

in the wall. i beg, bhindi. keep going, carry on.

as you crumple into a strangled brown scream

let me tell you how abruptly she cut the call

when she realized that eleven hadn't sprouted.

i beg you to keep singing, now that you know.

~ ajay

20/2/2022