In this hometown, my uncles have feigned an onset dementia. They have made caste difference, the mark of a malignance. One is taken to the backyard shrubberies , to be uprooted with exasperation. To be done away with wrath.
Last year, I wrote poems influenced by various fruits, melding their physical traits with cultural meanings. A nostalgic childhood memory of oranges and my mother's love for them vividly resurfaced, inspiring a haiku I greatly enjoyed creating.
They could've raped our neighbour, and only God knows what they would have done to us hadn't for the intervention of other farmers who heard our screams.
My father passed on within weeks of me being born. I did not get to see him nor do I know if he got to see me. I learnt that he was late by going through the family album and seeing the funeral photos. We had a tradition of going to see our grandparents every school holiday.
I have a treasure trove of memories from my joyful childhood days. Unlike some who bitterly recount painful experiences, particularly from childhood abuses, my story is different.
