My father measures time with mogras. 

He goes to this public park to walk every evening 

Walks the same route, at the same time like clockwork

Done that for about 16 years now

And in one corner of the park, there are swings

Where kids play 

Near the swings are some old benches where the parents sit 

And keep a watchful eye on their toddlers

My father often calls me from those benches

He gets envious of fathers buying ice lollies for their young girls

Sometimes he tells a random dad to savor this time 

Because soon his baby girl will be too big to fit in his arms

And her dreams will be too big to fit in his world 

Separating the benches from the walking path are blankets of mogra plants

My father measures time with mogras 

I live too far away now 

Summer breaks are long enough to go home   

So every year, I skip the European summer of my dreams 

And run home to my mother’s light and my father’s warmth

I am always home from June till September

Missing my first week of university to be able to celebrate dad’s birthday

My sister can take a full month off any time of the year 

If she plans it well, she can be home for her favourite festival- Navratri 

And also my family’s time to shine- Diwali

But she loves me too much

So she too comes home in August

This way the four of us get to be in the same place for the full 30 days

We look forward to this one month all year round

But you see, didi and I have this life away from home

We get consumed in it sometimes

Leaving space to be homesick only around festivals and birthdays and weekends

Besides that, Mumma is the epitome of strength 

She envisioned a life for her daughters and made sure we live it

So whenever she misses us, 

She makes a ball of all the nostalgia and throws it 

Far behind the parapet of independence and pride

She refuses to let emotions get in the way of our goals

You have made it out of this loop of sacrificial womanhood,

Don’t look back, nothing is waiting for you here.

It has been three years since we moved out and not once have I heard this woman say-

Come home I miss you

But 

My father measures time with mogras 

He just wants to carry his baby girls in his arms,

Show them the world from the safety of his shoulders

Braid their hair and sing them lullabies

Take them to play at the swings and fight over shared ice lollies

Mogras are in bloom only once a year

End of summer, beginning of monsoons

My father measures time with mogras 

So when he starts noticing little white bulbs on the plants during his evening walks

He starts to find recipes on the internet

Kashmiri Yakhni, Chettinad Mutton Curry 

Sheermal and Shahi Parcha Kebab 

He orders way too many cotton and linen sarees from Instagram small businesses

The type mumma used to wear in college, the type I wear to look like mumma

He gets matching kurtas made

For our weekend kitchen-dance parties

Makes mumma take out all the fancy glassware

Starts telling his friends about all the plans he has 

My father measures time with mogras 

Because his Jasmita comes home when the mogras bloom

Every Saturday he buys fresh mogras for my room 

And gajras for mumma’s hair 

He drives me to places and waits up until I get back home  

Answers the same questions about SIPs patiently 

He cooks and sings  

He brags to everyone 

And he listens to me talk about my year nonstop

And when the mogras stop coming, he buys juhi gajras instead

Hoping he can fool me 

They look almost the same, their scent is similar too 

And I pretend to be fooled but you can’t fool time

Can you?

We both know it is time for me to leave

The plants in the park are bare

The markets empty

So is my father’s house

My father measures time with mogras 

He sees the gardener mending the branches and adding compost

Preparing for the next blooming season

He calls me from his bench 

362 days to go Nanku,

I have found this amazing new recipe for Chicken Changezi

And a very old Laxmikant Pyarelal recorded concert

It is going to be mogra season before you know it pappa!