Jasmine
Yesterday, he was as thin as a stick,
But for the first time in 6 months
He spoke, he laughed,
On that white bed.
And he called by my name
his beloved
And may be he rubbed my head
And may be he left some kind of jasmine smell on my clothes
And I thought
May be he would laugh again tomorrow.
He was healthy
And smiling
For the first time in 6 months
In that black and white portrait
In that brown picture frame
Tomorrow never comes.
The smoke of nutmeg and sandalwood
cut through my body
and eliminated the last smell of him from my mind.
He was dead.
And I cried,
For the first time in six months
On the red carpet of the temple floor
And may be I did not understand
the meaning of death then
Because they said it mean that
he was free from all the pain.
And no longer chained by the suffering of life
But they did not tell me that
The grey ashes from his cremation
and the smell of sandalwood and nutmeg
from the brown coffin
will be the only things I have left of him.
I am alive.
But he has been dead
For 10 years now.
The grey ashes of his still stain my breath.
And maybe I forget how does white look like
Because the last time I saw it
was in his last laugher
and jasmine fragrance
that he let out from that stick body.
And may be I am the only one
who is unable to move on.
Because even grandma starts talking about him
in past tense now.
But the smells of Nutmeg and sandalwood
Still haunt me even in my sleep.
And may be ten years ago was
when I realised that everyone die and will die
With the only mere trace of them left behind
Like a faint smoke of sandalwood and nutmeg
so I let myself sink into the smoke
of those smell I hate so much
Down to the mist
of all the trace that people who have left me.
He is not alive.
But he was there,
In the middle of nutmeg and sandalwood despair,
And may be his hand reached out for me
Trying to free his beloved from her own coffin.
Because I am his beloved
and through all the suffering
I will learn to heal the wound
and live with a scar of him in my heart.
Because scars are not painful.
It is just a reminder that when people left
nothing of them remained but distorted marks,
But that remind me that may be at least once
I had loved and been loved.
I am alive.
Teardrops on the same stained mattress
and grey ashes in my eyes,
But may be tomorrow will come even after ten years
because the smoke of sandalwood and nutmeg
is now replaced by the sweetness of jasmine.
And maybe one day I will caress my scar gently,
And will be able to see white again.
