A beautiful love poem by Anumita, where the wife waits for her sailor husband, praying and pining at the Tusli Mancha.
She will hear the sailors’ calls
When her anklets chimes in jingles never heard
As she runs to the door and bursts through it
This angan 1 , where she spend evenings, weaving dreams of him
Every night she would light her heart at the root of Tulsi
Her breath, the fire, danced on the tip of the oil lamp
Her blood…the oil
Every evening she bowed and rubbed her forehead
On the cold hard mud of the Tulsi mancha 2
She waits for the Moon
She waits for him
Knowing one day he will cover it with kisses
Will her anklet change the rhythm from a slow
Tingle to a bunch of peal scattered in a second.
©Anumita Chatterjee Roy
Pic by author.
1 Angan is inner courtyard.
2 The place where the holy plant is grown and worshipped in Hindu homes.