Crunch, Crunch, An Indian Gooseberry.

The clock striking eleven, a Monday morning,
I sit up in bed; recall events from the time elapsed,
And stretch a hand right over the head, a yawn long-lasting,
To see light entering, though the window shade is drawn,
A panic of the wasted day rising; I quicken my steps,
To the businesses of the morning and splash water on my face,
Then I see kept in community, a bowl of Indian gooseberries,
Mama has bought from the farmers’ market,
Half a pound, thin, delicate neon-green,
Translucent to the light from the tube,
Indian gooseberries on the dinner table;
I separate one from its fraternity, no criterion employed,
I put it on my table of study waiting to savour in moment,
The day passes between a quick read and a difficult one,
A plate of bountiful rice and crushed mint for supper,
And then I pick up the gooseberry playfully caressing its circumference,
The remnant of the stalk removed with a flick of the thumb,
I bite into it, anticipating early the sweet-sour of its fruit,
A sharp pain in the incisor, the function of the deteriorating tooth,
Comes to mind with each crunch of the lusty flesh,
Crunch, crunch, cataloguing each one to make visceral sense,
There the sour of first heartbreak, there the death of a babe,
Crunch, the loss of precious riches in the bonfire,
And, the nights beckoning the gallows, crunch;
The sweet and sour of the fruit is in congruence,
With the greater Life and the glorious mix,
Pains and eventful circumstances glowing in the midst,
Towards discernment in the pending morrow,
Just as the lingering sweet of the mouth reminds once the crunch is done,
And so comes too, the rudimentary knowledge,
Lessons from yonder, no crystal, no cloud, no method can perfect that,
Only the going away of the self and the image that reflects,
Thus taught the Indian gooseberry lingering in the mouth,
The best way to eat it, is with an open hand.

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