Motherhood

Tinted light splinters into pixie dust

filtering through the odhani's tender touch

reminiscent of a mother's love.

Long before dupatta-donned skits,

before sticky hands reached for shiny lipsticks,

In some hazy part of your brain, memories remain,

of days spent suckling on your guardian's breast

watching with loving eyes, praying for good health

while a veil dyed bright gulaal

painted prickly afternoons into rose-tinted eves.

A womb outside the womb,

like a training phase where you learn

to stretch, grasp, miss

the translucent curtain, like elusive rain.

Babies too new, too fresh,

unable to comprehend this world,

can't remember these fleeting moments.

Yet perhaps, 

when seeking comfort from 

a palash petal

the smoothened edge of a ceramic cup, 

a lover's hug,

some tactile memory stirs and asserts

days when pixie dust filtered through

an odhani's tender touch, like mother's love.

The above poem is for the NaPoWriMo2021. Day 28 Prompt: Veil