Monday, 13 May 2013

Dimma, come back to me, Dimma. Who will tell didibhai stories? Who will make posto borar chutney? Who will laugh with those teeth like pearls? I can't live in exile for so long without all of you. Come back to me, look I am a fat child rolling about in the sun and reading Agatha Christie. Won't you kiss my forehead and smooth the creases on it, and say, "Didibhai, let me tell you the story of the Happy Prince!" Won't you tell me about ghosts? And poetry?

Who will be as stern to others and giggly to me as you, Dimma?

No, no, no.

I love you love love love love you you you and I'll not cry just because I'm a mature young woman in exile. I'll be a poet instead.

1 comment:

little boxes said...

i'd be one too.
only poetry isnt half as salty as tears.