Betel leaves spread in the back yard of our family home,
Daadi will pluck a few off ,
She'll keep them near the paan daan.
After the lunch ,
She place the betel in her left hand ,
took a little chuna and khatta,
spreading it lightly ,
As if it was the love taken from her heart that barely existed.
While spreading it by her fingers
Sometimes it burnt her skin ,
She ignored as the other burnt wounds on her wrinkled skin ,
That was gifted by her late husband.
Sprinkling the supari pieces ,
And folding into the perfect triangle ,
Even in her old age.
She swallowed it ,
Just as she accepted her abusive husband and ignorant kids.
Chewing it turned her mouth red ,
Resembling the red ,
Her heart bleeds.
She spat it,
It was dark,
Perhaps the grief in her heart made a mixture.
YOU ARE READING
Gravestones of survival.
Poetry~People often misunderstand my gravestones of survivals into piece of art.~ Random pieces of poetry.
