Of stories and cane chairs
So many stories have called the
rocking of the old cane chair that sits
on the corner of my room
the first experience of an eternal life;
stories of legends and myths
cradled in the soft cotton
folds of my grandmother's saree,
Bedtime stories spoken over the music of my mother's bangles, that I still remember,
and stories that the bard in me, has
poured out in rivulets of ink...
Like the interwoven cane branch patterns
of the chair,
our stories meet each other, through time.