The Momma Clan

To the dearest mother of this world, how come I forgot to write about you?
You have always given me reasons to breathe into my body.
You have always carried my broken heart like Shiva Baba does for Sati.
You have always given me the lap of motherly love when I was pulling out of insomnia. What to offer you, Kali maa? How to offer you the camphor-like sentences for you?
The words like flowers are here to weave the garland for your hair and the few broken verses to lamp the moon of your eye.
Just these few algorithms of love for you.

Since day one, when I visualized your idol image, there was always that tinge of love bombing for you.
The matted locks, red lips, blood-driving eyes that pure vision of yours holding the barrels of skulls, with the blue bourbon of shades and pastels.
I see my mother, my best friend, as a beautiful hologram in you.
That mother who sweetly scolded me and saved me from the deadlock of difficulties.
You have always held my hands when I was beaten by the naivety of life and death.

The death of parents metaphorically mugs me the fire and water principle of the skin and ego death, the massive useless accumulation of collecting temporary jewels, the chasing run of human competition for flesh and bones, and the concept of primal beauty of a soul.

My kali maa is the rephrased beauty of karma and spiritual cycles.
She is the pristine orange over the swamps.
My kali maa taught me to be fierce, standing against the rashes of time.
She knew when to sanctuary my darkness in her pure pearl eyes.
She roots me, riots me, rigors me, and watches tower me from my vantage point.
She gave me speech to petal, eyes to sense who Charlatan and Mountebank were; she gave me a portal of honey and gold wisdom to reiki the wounds of unhealed ones.
Her kohl demarcates the lines of jurisdiction.
She is the only one in the whole universe who teaches you the river of unconsciousness and the sea of supra-super consciousness.
She divides the sands of time and gaiety of earth again and again to let me know about the clock of temporality of the meat body with the needles of spirituality and devotion.

–Sunayana Kayastha
Jasmine of December