[ultimate_heading main_heading=”Poem by Sanam Sharma – Issue.XXVI : March 2017 ” main_heading_color=”#1e73be” sub_heading_color=”#8224e3″ spacer=”line_with_icon” spacer_position=”bottom” line_style=”dotted” line_height=”1″ line_color=”#1e73be” icon_type=”custom” icon_img=”id^48|url^http://ashvamegh.net/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/Ashvamegh-ICO.jpg|caption^null|alt^Ashvamegh Journal Icon|title^Ashvamegh ICO|description^null” img_width=”48″ main_heading_style=”font-weight:bold;” main_heading_font_size=”desktop:34px;” line_width=”3″]childhood reverberations…[/ultimate_heading]

Introduction to the Poet:

Sanam Sharma is a poet based in Melbourne, Australia. He migrated to Australia from India back in 1999. He has published her first volume of poetry entitled Tamed Words in July 2016.


Those mourning Grandmas


It was spooky, and chaotic.

Often, overwhelming,

than solemn.


was baleful,

and ominous,

in that sleepy little village

I grew up in. Courtesy, a bunch of veiled, elderly,

howling women,

who had been entrusted with

the unkind task,

of announcing


to the rest of the village.


Their haunting gnarls,

aptly effective

in gathering

flash mobs-

of mourners, and onlookers, alike.


My granny, too, no exception.

Stepping out, at the first hint

of a fatality

pacing through the uneven,

dusty, village streets,

eager, to join the brigade

of her contemporaries – those

bawling ladies

already immersed in theatrical sorrowing.


Once there, granny leapt in too,

into that high pitched, synchronized,


Shrouded in veils, the platoon of

grannies mourned the departed


Rehearsed histrionics – thumping chests – rhythmic boohoos – all expended, to improvise and enhance performance.


The ones who ran out of breath,

did not give in, instead,

whimpered on gently

until they herded back the energy, and

the howls.

Just as one thought, the

pandemonium had mellowed

collapsed a fragile granny, or two.


And so it went on, for a bit more.

A loud, and lasting farewell.


If cheerleading ever needed an antonym,

It had to be that bunch of keening grannies in my village.

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