Much too daunting, it swathed my soul like my mother’s black sari. Even now,

as we speak, I’m threading

a darkness you’re destined to unravel,

unravelling another you’ll need to reweave. What can I pass to you,

that you’ll keep? Once you asked, Does the Ganga’s current stop? It doesn’t stop, it merely stops being what we are and start being what? Where? What can I offer you to clasp close? These dappled mango leaf shadows—the poetry in pain?

This gentle, inherited darkness? What can I gift you that will help in  reincarnation, the next life you’ll explore without me?