Your strained voice

cries out to me, like the sage sitar.

It sings a sobering song

that transports me through sand.

Suddenly, a memory of your

loving care becomes so real.

I watch, awestruck,

as you took my tears

then weaved them into cloth.

Embroidered with golden silks

you pulled from the fabric

of your heart.

We never had much,

but your patience had me convinced

you were the palace in which we lived.

I exhale—only the warmth of love

and adoration escapes from my lungs;

in you, we have the stars.

Despite the struggle,

we only ever tasted the sweet saffron

you skillfully slipped into our souls.

Shalimar is in you;

my mother IS a Taj Mahal.

Her every breath's a nectar;

it is cardamom's caress.

I would reanimate a hundred thousand times

just to relive the splendour of her shadow;

i

t

was the sunrise of my lifetime.

I would relive every sadness behind my eyes

just to breathe the soothing citrus-scented air

of her orange grove.

I have never come so close to saintliness,

and I can soundly say

my spirit has never been the same.