Watch it Bloom

Watch it bloom. Lilies in the palms of your hands, their scent sickeningly sweet. You remember the slightest whiff could kill cats and they wilt, crumbling, falling, settling. 

 

Orchids encircle your forearms, double helix thrones for the raat ki raanis that bud in the spaces between, where the finger meets the palm, meets the wrist, the orchids, the vines, the branches here.


Breathe. Feel the winds of the oncoming monsoon storm here. Remember? The way the wind pushes your hand and you're flooded with the memories of all the times you did this before. The glee of an unsullied childhood, we didn't know so much about the world before. 


Would we have noticed the heat then? How the rain comes quicker now, the summer blaze setting fire to everywhere, everything. 


Breathe. Feel the wind holding your hand. Ventus meets flower meets epidermis, blood, bone. How it seeps deep into your being. The chill melding with the heat of life, clashing, waltzing. 


Tornadoes happen when cold currents and hot currents meet to dance, to play. 


Think about all the times we have twirled in the rain, face up, face down as drops drip down drop by drop. 


Being a kid doesn't feel as lonely anymore. 


The rain stops. The orchids bind your hand now, like medicine straps of the assassins we've all seen in movies don't lie, we've admired their aesthetic, even if from afar. The orchids melt, meld, amalgamate as the raat ki raanis do. 


The white scars along the underbelly of your arm are now cradled by portraits of flowers, of life. Holding you tight. Holding you close.


Holding your hand wherever you go.

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