Ashwini Vaidya


We sang beautiful
hymns in school, numbered 1-191
in a dim room

with a glossy floor.
I'd gaze outside often, and hear music
coming from the wind

that drove droplets along
the wires, where wet crows hunched.
Violins can draw

ghosts out of rooms.
Everyday rhythms become
crescendo. The memories

rush to your gullet,
filling it -- even while washing your hair
or watching cars from the balcony.

And you clamp nostalgia
like a mango pit between your teeth
woody and fragrant.

Location: Bombay India
Occupation: Student

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