My mother didn’t birth me, she said.

‘I plucked you from a tree,

a Papaya tree’,  she says.

‘It rained torrents that Chait night,

a storm raged, within and out

tearing apart all that came its way

our hut was blown, everything swept away

the tree shuddered, so did the fruits.

I spent the night clinging to the scarred trunk,

worried about our next meal,

a wild gale, then, bent the Papaya tree

I latched on to you while your siblings

fell apart. Bursting seedlings over my body.

With all my strength, I plucked you

the stem and branches bruised my hands and arms

streaks of blood trickled and covered your face

you, had a tender, pale skin.

Can you feel the scar on your forehead ?

That’s where my silver bracelet was lodged.

You weren’t ripe, not then.

Next morning, still trembling, I hid you

in the warmth of the last cloth on my body, thereon

you slept in my bosom, till

the first rain of Baisakh.

Your father, she said,