To my mother - Bhuyanshi Talukdar (a daughter writing to east from the north)

i
When I was young,
you were the first season I knew �"
the mist over morning fields,
the hush before sparrows begin,
a cup of tea steaming beside the window,
the warmth that filled the house
before sunlight reached the hedgerows.

ii
As I grew older,
life began to scatter like leaves in autumn.
Yet your steadiness remained �"
a garden bench beneath the willow,
a patch of lavender still in bloom
long after summer had gone.
I find comfort in my mother,
as rivers find their course
back to the sea.

iii
There were days
when I felt lost in my own growing �"
like fog drifting over moorland,
unsure where the land ends.
You sat beside me
as if silence itself could heal.
When I get sick, you cry �"
like soft rain over glass �"
and I see how love can ache quietly,
without a sound.

iv
Now I am 2 bean 4,
and you feel like heaven to me �"
not the faraway kind,
but in the scent of honeysuckle at dusk,
in the hush of elm-lined avenues,
You are home �"
the fire that never dies out,
the calm after rain.

v
If I ever forget who I am,
let me walk back to you �"
through lanes of wild roses,
through air smelling of dew and peat.
Mother, you are every gentle season
I’ve ever known.
And as I grow older,
I see it more clearly:
I am made of your patience,
and your endless sky of love.