Sibling Rivalry.

It must take incredible resolve to stay focused at the circus.  For some, chaos is the buzz and pestering of a simple fly.  It is a feat to stay afloat despite being deprived of a lifeboat.

With the self-restraint of saints, equipped with minimal complaint.  How does one bite their tongue through lifelong chronic pain, as their loved ones bellow over broken nails and migraines.

This kind of bravery seemed made for comic books and fairy tales; epics based on Viking Gods, or stories about sailors and sperm whales. Until that unforgettable day not too long ago, when I rubbed my eyes, in disbelief, as I watched my own sister effortlessly complete superhuman deeds.

There is nothing quite as loud as the silence that accompanies the truth; it echoes inside of us, before it blares like trumpets in a padded room and then blows off the roof.

I spent a lifetime believing confidence belonged to those who dared to shout.  Mistaken, now, as I admit my sister's silence did not stem from her self-doubt. Instead, it was her way of saving us from the fires we started in every single house.

Now, I burn from my own shame, for all the times I cursed her out, assumed she was my rival when she'd only been looking out.

For making false accusations to twisted sisters who laughed at me behind my back, and even to my face.  I cannot eat my acidic words, or ever remove those stains.  I can, however, commit to behaving the way a brother worthy of her should behave.

I beam, with pride now, as my vision is no longer clouded by my own delusion, or promises uttered by others only to be lost to the wind.  Grateful, more than ever, to have finally paid attention long enough to applaud an authentic femme fatale, who is also my best friend.

The fear of loss has made me quicker to count my blessings from above; the greatest of which, are her and our mother's unconditional love.  From sibling rivalry, to reverence, she is the one person I could never be without.  If it weren't for those pinches, I'd probably be six feet underground.

Shakti.

I stood there helplessly, drowning in defeat,
darkened by my inability to breathe life into
your rusted heart's resilient beat—
a symphony I memorized from the inside,

in forty weeks.

Incapable of returning you to the raven haired beauty of your prime, I bite my tongue until I'm numb, as if my lips have been sewn shut with twine.

You heal me when you hold me then transport me back in time, to the days of yesteryear, when I was still your innocent, little child.

I am haunted by the trauma when I will one day find, that I can no longer turn to you for comfort, or the reassurance of your smile.

I know I run but I am frightened, when I see you've become so frail.My mind refuses a reality where you are no longer my nightingale.

Your song lulled me into slumber, as you softly sang the world to sleep.

If only I had looked at you long enough to see,
that all you were ever doing was trying to love me.

There is no bond like that between a mother and her only son, even if he is less deserving of
her pride than he is of her scorn. 

Mamta.

Your strained voice
cries out to me, like the sage sitar.
It sings a sobering song
that transports me through sand.

Suddenly, a memory of your
loving care becomes so real.

I watch, awestruck,
as you took my tears
then weaved them into cloth.
Embroidered with golden silks
you pulled from the fabric
of your heart.

We never had much,
but your patience had me convinced
you were the palace in which we lived.

I exhale—only the warmth of love
and adoration escapes from my lungs;
in you, we have the stars.

Despite the struggle,
we only ever tasted the sweet saffron
you skillfully slipped into our souls.

Shalimar is in you;
my mother IS a Taj Mahal.
Her every breath's a nectar;
it is cardamom's caress.

I would reanimate a hundred thousand times
just to relive the splendour of her shadow;
it was the sunrise of my lifetime.

I would relive every sadness behind my eyes
just to breathe the soothing citrus-scented air
of her orange grove.

I have never come so close to saintliness,
and I can soundly say
my spirit has never been the same.