Saraswati Nagpal
Bimla is dusting cobwebs in the balcony. I am writing in my study. The poem is arriving in hot, molten lines. I can barely keep up. Bimla calls me to look at the stripe in the bedroom ceiling where the plaster has cracked. There is a full minute’s discussion on dry weather. I return to my cooling sentences.
Bimla is dicing garlic on the wrong chopping board. I can tell by the sound of the blade hitting the wood. I am wringing my hands. The poem’s hit a snag. I am explaining too much.
Bimla is sauteing the cauliflower in mustard oil. I’m chopping exposition, excavating the vein of gold I’d lost.
I’m deep in mud, can practically smell wet earth. Steve pops his head around my study door. “Which of the two identical glass jugs contains yesterday’s milk?”
I am in the kitchen. I point to the jug on the left, uncertainly. Bimla has me now. I receive an update on her husband’s recovery. I make a note on a lemon Post-it to give her a bonus. Empty jars are lined up on the counter. She opens drawers, naming all the groceries that need ordering. The fridge is bare. She waves a dying tomato in the air to prove her point. My brain is trying to find another word for “splendour.”
I escape with the Post-it, grasp my writing gear, recall the scent of morning rain. A vegetable list is unfurling in my mind’s eye. I breathe, tell myself it can wait.
I am pulling words like weeds from the poem. My heart is brightening, now the lines are beginning to coalesce. Bimla’s silver anklets are ringing in the lounge, closer and closer to my study. I look up. Yesterday’s milk has split. Bimla intends to make paneer. I blink.
More weeding, pruning. Some polishing. The lines are dancing now, like a river out of my mouth. I can’t stop myself from repeating their delicious sounds to the Balinese Saraswati on my table. Bimla is at my door again. She needs hangers for the ironing. She thinks I’m insane. I think I have a poem.
Saraswati Nagpal is a Forward Prize, Pushcart and BoTN nominated poet, writer of myth & fantasy, and a classical dancer. She is Co-Editor at The Winged Moon Literary Magazine on Substack. Her work is published in The Atlantic, Atlanta Review, SAND, Dust, Acropolis and others. Her debut poetry collection “Drench Me in Silver” (Black Bough) is out in August 2025. Find her @saraswatinagpal.
Featured photos by Saraswati Nagpal
