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Grandmother, an Exhibit

By Pallavi Chansoria


In the winters of 52

Men in boots

Stomping streets of anonymous towns

And horses dressed like brides,

A whole hullabaloo;

And a girl in the centre

Bright red as fire or vice-versa

Sat- tiniest wick I had ever seen.

But I did not see her cry even then.


In the summers of my childhood

When no history existed

Nor future, in my mind

She cried when I would leave.

It seemed like the worst thing in the world just then

But the world didn’t disappoint.


In my youth, sit atop her cataract-corrected eyes

Frosted lenses white,

Piercing as ice- frozen fossils of dreams

That took only a short flight.

And I as a failed archaeologist

Marvel at them like undiscovered civilizations.

I sit and examine them with the same sinking feeling

Of watching shriveled corpses of fireflies

That you had caught alive

In a jar, only just last night. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

About the Author: Pallavi Chansoria is from the Batch of 2017–19. She runs her own blog under the name Untitled Definitions.

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