The morning light pours in,
through the chink in the roof,
a lace-like pattern on the veranda.
I watch my grandmother milk the white jersey cow.
The smell fills the cowshed.
Later, when the conch resonates,
I run across the paddy field.
I insist on running,
until she promises me a candy.
Twenty years later,
My grandmothers' body burns in a pyre,
along the bank of Bagmati river.
And then the burning continues,
of the known, and the unknown people.
A darkness starts within me,
Its heaviness stays,
even though my life moves on.
as I walk along the creek, near my home,
follow the watercourse,
through the wood,
I think of my grandmother and
those countless people, who drifted away
with the smoke, leaving only
a handful of ash
and a heaviness behind.