Reshma Ramesh Grandmother’s yard When we are travel far away from our home, we are getting closer to ourselves. As I put my head out to look at mile stones lined with Gulmohar trees, swollen monsoons, empty roads, distant thunder, trees with hands on their heads, clouds looking like dyed wool, the wind in my hair making it fly all over the window, looking out at the Agumbe hills a tiny part of the mighty Western ghats that line the Indian subcontinent from Maharasthra to Kerala. The road is curved mostly, the monsoon just ended and the mountains are filled with tiny silver streaks which I thought at first were glistening rocks but then I realized it is water trickling down slowly to form streams. Though we don’t stop to touch the water I know that it is very cold just like the ones in Chickmanguluru which we stopped to feel last summer. There is something about flowing water especially on my feet that is soothing and takes me back to my childhood where I would stand by the beach and look fascinated at the sea while the small waves lap at my feet. Because you left me some warmth this winter In the belly of a jack fruit smelling of Directions given by strangers to familiar places Where you are lost and yet know the way somehow.
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