[ April 5 21:00

“Sarva Shaktimate Parmaatmane Sri Ramaaya Namaha.”]

She stresses on the ‘Sri. Shi-ree.

She’s said it 25,

now 26,

now 27 times.

Repeated sounds usually throw

me into panic but I’m standing on both feet equally.

Maybe it’s because I’ve been busy

calculating the number of times

she’s going to say the prayer in the next 9 minutes:

sixty divided by ten into nine equals fifty four /

My mother has always prayed violently.

She fed me hope when I was five and I

swallowed shortly but I still have some stuck

in my teeth

So I open my mouth wide

at every ‘ramaaya’ to show her/

I’m not sure who my mother’s God is.

My list so far tells me it’s window seats,

full-burnt matchsticks, photo frames, stars,

torn marigolds,

women, rain, report cards and the sun.

I think hers is the only God I believe in/

I think I could write her a prayer book

And maybe today

It’ll take nine minutes to form a habit.

Simran is a slam poet and graphic designer based in Mumbai.