This text is presented alongside the exhibition We Were Connected in a More Complicated Way Than Either of Us Could Even Begin To Understand by Monica Rani Rudhar as part of the Seventh Gallery Emerging Writers’ Program 2024.

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The mangoes lay on the barren floor,

waiting to be chosen

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I begin to remember mum’s stories

her past slices open

her voice sways

embodying ringing bells

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Monica, she says,

did I ever tell you about my first love?

I was just a girl

when a great tragedy shook me,

dad left and mum grew ill

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I used to weep by the hill for hours,

awaiting some solace

and one day it came along

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she would let me rest on her belly,

and carry my pain

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I would walk her to the hill

to watch the sunset,

let the dew and air gush within

and soon everything would be okay

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Mum,

your past sews to me,

how blood entangles with ancestry

‍

through the eyes of life

beyond space and bodies

‍

tell me,

How do aching memories still breathe?

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Mum,

I cannot erase your hurt

but

I wait for you

by the hill, by the mango stream

‍

Can you see me?

Can you see me?

‍

I am the seed that outgrows your worries,

I am the eye of fortune and the blade of viridescence,

‍

Can we cross through time together,

across the uprooted hill,

under the mango tree?

‍

Let us rest,

upon this tender belly of familiarity