Speaking to the spring bougainvillea

Sufia Khatoon

Speaking to the spring bougainvillea

By the chilekotha in the spring

my pink bougainvilleas bloom.

I had found it lying underneath

a neglected patch of concrete

-

waiting

-

I run my fingers

around its felt petals and weep.

It can really see me –

it doesn’t find my coldness

uncomfortable or 

my wuthering unbearable.

-

I am enough for it to love

-

When you are resurrected

on the day of kayamat –

you forget if you had ever

found love or not.

You forget everything

and you wait for

-

Paradise

-

I speak to them

in the sudden hailstorm.

I keep some of the

bougainvilleas in my life

like sugar flowers

book pressed to love

-

longer

-

Chilekotha-attic, kayamat-judgement day

***

Gulistan-e-firdaus

Five years old Faisal

knows how to comfort the startled pigeons

on my temple.

He simply touches the fear caving inside

and pats my forehead – 

hear the flapping of their 

                                           wings

You can’t carry the weight of names and become one.

Your face is a conflicted land

breaking in the search of

                                         gulistan-e-firdaus.

Settle the released breaths

erase the past and taste the fragrance 

of rainstorm nursing dusks.

I am learning to love

my dusty corners and 

the unkempt histories.

Gulistan-e-firdaus: Garden of roses in Paradise

***

Bosha on the oranges 

I pluck out the bosha 

from the dwarf oranges 

last summer ammi bought 

to our garden.

It disobeys the simple rule of keeping 

to its confinements – 

circle of anxieties and converging realities. 

Dissect the heartbeat of love and 

find me when all is 

                                drifting...

I s o l a t e

                 the 

                        f e a r

Seeing 

-

is breaking the illusions and

entering the chase 

wafting out of the oranges.

I have seen enough...

There is nothing here.

I am contemplating – 

How to build walls around and save the flowers? 

But it belongs to the world 

and hate and love will always reach it 

-

always. 

Bosha- a kiss, ammi- mother

***

Exiled gandharaj shrub 

I am naming the smells in 

my garden

soaked in afsana – 

Itraa-e-rooh 

Ambergris of gilli mitti mixed

with first blooms of gondhoraj.

It is reluctant to follow instinct 

when I crush its leaf

and enter the lines of my palm.

The exiled gondhoraj shrub has

returned this spring from war

of beliefs...

It wants to find a conflicted land

and grow inside its soil

'tahaffuz'.

I teach my skin to be thicker 

and survive the violence 

when it is hated

by chosen ambiguities.

Stray cats mark the territory around 

the shrub and the crow drives the chicks

away from my garden.

I collect the suspended petals and 

carry the smells.

I sit with my mother under the tree shade,

I pick the stones out of the pile of wheat grains, 

shifting through the grains of thoughts.

One at a time, caressing the afternoon to clam my mind

pick out the husk, the moulds holding my breath 

and blow it towards the sun.

Afsana- story, Itraa-e-rooh – scent of soul, gilli mitti- wet soil, gondhoraj- aromatic lime, tahaffuz- protection

***

Credential

Shortlisted for Yuva Puraskar 20 & 22, Sufia Khatoon is a multi-lingual performance poet, artist, facilitator and mentor. Awarded with Suprabha and Santiranjan Sengupta IPPL Poetry Book Award 2023, she is the Co-Founder of Rhythm Divine Poets community Kolkata and the Editor of EKL Review. She was nominated as one of the 100 Inspiring Indian Muslim Women from West Bengal by RBTC. She has authored “Death in the Holy Month'' shortlisted for Yuva Puraskar Sahitya Akademi 2020-22 and Ger-mi-na-tion (Longlisted Ataglata Bangalore Literature Prize 22). She is also the recipient of the Amio Santa Award 2017 for her philanthropic initiatives. She is a PR, Media and Event curator by profession. She is working on the 1 Million Peace Poetry Prayer Flag Installation project aimed to unify the cause of peace through poetry and people

***

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Setu, March 2025