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Time is filled with 

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.


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