Moonlight Symphony
The moon was a woman last night,
distant,
immaculate.
She slid over the rooftops,
gliding gracefully,
touching the rim of the coffee mug I had forgotten to drink from,
resting herself against my windowpane,
a poetry wrapped in haze.
In her delicate light,
everything shimmered –
the vintage lace of the tablecloth,
the frayed edges of my book,
a crayon-drawing and a half-eaten toast,
my daughter’s divine face –
now more luminous,
more tender.
Waxing and waning,
a plump ivory pearl hanging from the sky.
Thinning out, fading gradually,
reminding me that I am whole
irrespective of the phase I am in.
In the sacred stillness of the moon,
the ordinary is rendered extraordinary:
a father reveling in a quiet moment with his
daughter,
rocking her to sleep.
Nothing is missing,
everything is in its place.
A feeling of hygge washes over me.
There is nowhere else I want to be but here.
Wabi-Sabi Mama
Almost all night long,
I tinkered with the portrait I made of Old Mac Donald and his red tractor:
a gray-bearded kind-hearted man
with rosy cheeks from working in the sun.
Donning a straw hat,
plaid shirt, blue overalls and muddy brown boots.
Behind huge red wheels maneuvering muddy fields,
pulling a trailer full of hay.
The portrait was imperfect:
Old Mac Donald’s smile, crooked,
a smear of green where blue should be,
nonetheless,
my daughter could barely contain her excitement –
“Old Mac Dawal, Old Mac Dawal, vrooooom!”
Once again she mispronounces Donald in her characteristic way.
And no,
I don’t correct her this time,
Dawal is too cute, and I totally soak up the moment.
I even let her eat a couple of madeleines dipped in tea,
Today, I let her jump in the puddles, I let her play to her heart’s content,
But I don’t jump to wipe off the stain from turmeric milk,
and I let her sink her nails into blueberries and cherries, I let her explore.
I am learning to cherish the beauty inherent in the minutiae of parenthood,
the cuteness in the mispronounced words,
the joy of indulging in sweets and savories,
the childhood hidden in messy frocks, puddles and crayon-scribbled walls,
books strewn all over the floor
laundry pile in the corner…
There’s a crack in my favourite coffee mug,
the mug with a picture of her in my tummy in my last trimester,
I still drink from it because it’s us,
because it feels like home.
My days are pretty much like that porcelain mug,
somewhat chipped and asymmetrical,
clumsy, messy,
but brimming with love and contentment.
Some nights, I recite the Hanuman Chalisa to her,
Other nights, Moon River and Nescafe Open Up.
And sometimes, it’s just the silence between us that calms and soothes more than words ever could.
Daytime stories and mismatched socks,
a lopsided chapati that becomes a heart,
and peanut butter toast that is sometimes burnt,
a scribbled wall now a mural…
I am learning to be a real parent instead of
chasing the idealized version of mamahood,
a happy mother who reminds herself each day that
her daughter is not a project, and she’s not a machine.
We are both a work-in-progress…
Life is happening right here, right now,
it’s good even if it’s not perfect,
choosing Wabi-Sabi in a world obsessed with ideal, flawless, impeccable and perfect,
is choosing peace and joy,
is surrender to what is and instead of harrowing over what ifs,
Wabi-Sabi,
savouring the present moment,
celebrating the natural flow of life,
imperfection, impermanence and incompleteness,
Wabi-Sabi Mama,
a distance from the self,
far enough to dim the glare of the ego
and quiet the dim of the mind.
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About the Author
Swati Moheet Agrawal is a mother and a writer who is preoccupied with arranging things in a certain order. Be it her daughter’s toys, books or her own words, her fixation with symmetry and exactness continues. Her work has appeared in Muse India, Setu, Active Muse, Kitaab, The Alipore Post, Sledgehammer Lit, Five Minute Lit, Café Lit Magazine, The Dribble Drabble Review, The Pangolin Review, Paragraph Planet, Nailpolish Stories, Modern Literature, Indian Periodical, Potato Soup Journal, Rhodora Magazine, Friday Flash Fiction, Ariel Chart, Thimble Lit Mag and The Criterion among other literary magazines and journals.
