DIVYA BHATIA I the memory room I

by Dyvia Bhatia

The room with the memories holds still As each one screams its storyOut into the open where no one listens, But everyone watches - silently, As the man in the wooden boat carries his living with him, His boat bursts with his proud array of spices Bright gold turmeric for his family, Vicious red chili powder for his losses, Swirled cinnamon sticks for his journey, Flower-headed cloves for his dreams, And tiny mustard seeds for the bullets taken Each exuding his familiar situation as Remnants of his second migration The first, by the Mughals out of the land of Kush and Then, forced by men wearing red coats through Kashmiri peaks and Into the unfamiliar land of the people with spices in boats

The charred edges of his boat reek with scars From the bloodbath of the night before where Next to the well, his family shattered And he combed up their pieces from the ground And threw them into the well Threw them at the red-coated authority Who just watched - silently, As the man in the wooden boat carried his life to The murky water, where its purity cleansed him But did nothing to compensate, the shadow Cast upon his boat remains, Never to be erased, but only forgotten as Tears after, his next generation ventures, Quaked out of their homes, Out of the land of the spices, to An unfamiliar world where thousands Of captured and developed memories Are stored, but never listened to