Suddenly there's filth everywhere
Hair, colossal clumps of it that am losing
Hair on bedsheets, on the floor, ubiquitous
Dust in all corners
On tables, window ledges, railings
Gossamer under the bed
Clothes piles over piles
Not one fold in place
The wardrobes smell
And no amount of camphor helps
Empty bottles here and there
Strips of medicines scattered
Creams and deoderants, tilted and leaking
The sun filters in through curtains
It's so bright, the filth can't go unseen
And I
Post partum, body aching in parts
Sitting among this raw filth
And meditating about what is

Monsoon Baby

Baby clothes need the sun. Like they really need the sun. But monsoon baby chose to be born in the monsoon. It wasn't strange, I knew he would be a monsoon baby I mean I was due in July so obviously he wouldn't be born in the summer at all. But all seasons are summer, except the peak of winter I guess. So baby clothes of the one born in monsoon didn't get much sun. I wondered why we didn't have those washing machines that dried clothes to the hilt instead of just wringing them dry with still thirty percent moisture. I mean what is the meaning of that. Just because we are a hot country, can't we have those special washing machines. But anyway. It was monsoon when he was born. And a lot of summer too. So monsoon baby's mama, in post partum sat with her swollen body and pained knees and breastfulls of milk, sweating and crying. Sweating and crying, both without a break that she confused which was which. One couldn't crank up the AC you know because, monsoon baby is a baby and could catch a cold. Or is the monsoon baby so tiny that the cold would have to catch it instead. But either way, monsoon mama sat sweating for what seemed like months. To begin with monsoon granmaa washed all baby clothes with baby detergent and soaked them with in dettol and wrung them as much as possible with her arthritic hands. The sun did a bit of the drying and then it started raining and the fans were stuck with the rest of the job. Fuck the heating iron, thought monsoon mama. I mean just fuck it. Whoever has time to iron baby clothes now. We are all dying with lack of sleep and the sun hasn't practically set for weeks and the monsoon baby doesn't know day from night and doesn't sleep. So fuck the heating iron, just fuck it.