Literatures of assam

Alaka Yeravadekar
Management Accountant, currently faculty with a B-School. Also freelance content and travel writer. Interests are photography, travel, nature and music.
Her email: alakaa@gmail.com


Garland weavers
They sit in a row.
Old shirts, once-white kurtas,
and nine yard sarees.
Woven baskets in front,
deft hands stringing garlands
of mogra, crysanthemums
marigold and sweet
scented nishigandh.
Snip snip go the scissors
ruthlessly chopping off
unwanted foliage.
Intertwining moments
of fun, laughter and celebrations.
And a requiem
for the dead.
You and I
Thoughts
unsaid
unspoken
unwritten
clutter
the space
between us
creating
an aberration
on a normal graph,
a knot
in the thread
to be passed
through a needle.
To my muse
I.If we met
The seas could churn
and earth might burn,
snowcaps melt,
rainbows explode.
Then words might dance
and vowels thunder,
consonants blazea trail of surrender.
Or perhaps
waves would glide
in mellow light,
and gentle rain
soften the night?
if we but met…
II.
Call me blood-thirsty leech
if you must.
I can see
what might ensue
but I need to burrow
deep, into
your warm presence,
feed off your brains
drink in your thoughts.
.Dry tinder
burns fast.
When we meet
I might catch fire,
but I must die
for only then
my poem flowers.

(with courtsy from Muse India)