It’s only words... An excerpt from the book of poetry, Love Without A Story!

WHEN LANDSCAPE 
BECOMES WOMAN

I was eight when I looked 
through a keyhole

and saw my mother in the drawing room 
in her hibiscus silk sari,

her fingers slender 
around a glass of iced cola

and I grew suddenly shy 
for never having seen her before.

I knew her well, of course – 
serene undulation of blue mulmul, 
wrist serrated by thin gold bangle, 
gentle convexity of mole 
on upper right arm, 
and her high arched feet – 
better than I knew myself.

And I knew her voice, 
like running water — 
    ice cubes in cola.

But through the keyhole 
at the grown-up party, 
she was no longer 
geography.

She seemed to know 
how to incline her neck, 
just when to sip 
her swirly drink 
and she understood the language 
of baritone voices and lacquered nails 
and words like Emergency.

I could have watched her all night.

And that’s how I 
discovered 
that keyholes always  
reveal more 
than doorways.

That a chink in a wall 
is all you need 
to tumble 
into a parallel universe.

That mothers are women.

(Excerpted with permission from Love Without A Story by Arundhati Subramaniam, Context)