Uhinee Bhattacharya

The saccharine sweetness of jalebis filling the house.
The petals of rose floating,  glimmering, in crystal bottles.
A house, bright with lights, and time filled with songs of Arijit Singh.
Flickering candles amidst the leftover candle wax from ghosts of fourteen lives.

​

The greetings from ever so familiar, but unseen voices of uncles and aunties.
The innocent voices bartering for a second helping.
Only to receive the fleeting glance of  a mother’s warning.

​

Hair pinned up in painstakingly delicate buns.
Bejewelled necks and ears sore from wielding treasured treasures.
Painted crimson lips to accent the bindi stains.

​

The rangoli dyed hands of mothers and daughters.
The bruises and blisters from heels high enough to touch the sun.
The oil spilled by teetering toddlers.
The sari-adorned girls in films being spun.

​

But soon,
The diyas dim. 
The songs stop.

​

Eventually time is filled with,
the wait lighting the light for the next year.