[ April 5 21:00
“Sarva Shaktimate Parmaatmane Sri Ramaaya Namaha.”]
She stresses on the ‘Sri. Shi-ree.
She’s said it 25,
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,
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.