Bending her rheumatic knees
She spent hours near ‘lipa’
Made with three rocks
Cooking sweets
The yard was a pink blanket
Covered with spike like ‘pini jambu’ petals
‘Achchi’ cooked ‘kawum’
We fought for the turn on the swing
And who was to fill the cup she kept
To pour the sweet mix
I yearn for the last oil cake she made
Without a shape
Without worrying how it looked
broken into pieces among us, cousins
If my old memory is not so wrong
Almost every New Year
While we feasted like unrestrained calves
she was feverish in her bed.


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