The
Phonetics of My Boyhood
Mother taught me the phonetics of hexagonal
topology  
and the prosody of serene phoneme 
with the pulse of sensibility 
she made me memorise the tables  
of a banyan tree’s innocence oftentimes  
promising a reward for every answer 
she helped me practice the formulae  
asking to surf the galaxy of truth alongside  
even pain might be your apple-red beloved 
of your heart, she reiterated.  
I accompanied her to the park and cinema; 
like a ghost in her sari drape or a shadow in precision
of course I wasn’t a boy with boy IQ  
she drove as usual very grave to reprimand 
some of the gods of small things  
in the market she would sip a cup of cinnamon tea     
with Udupi uttapam;
when I said that I loved the Lee
brand  
and Reebok’s
tawdriness
mother would gift just a cowboy’s hat 
and a pair of South Korean T-shirts 
or hardly some mediocre goggles  
the Nivia
store always remained an illusion. 
Mother was obviously not poor at mathematics 
but exceptionally good 
even at the theory of diminishing marginal utility 
she fumigated the seeds of economic conundrums 
coinciding the art of pole-vaulting  
and the nuances of Newton’s formulae with it.
Often she chased me to dare skydiving like eagles 
and snow surfing like penguins  
she sounded the phonetics—pain might either be the
replica 
of Abraham Lincoln’s laughter 
or an antique love letter of Cleopatra 
otherwise the joy of Uncle Tom’s redemption!
 
 
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