A Summer's Faith

 

A tiny bump, a summer bloom,

A wart appeared, dispelling gloom

Of holiday plans with sudden dread,

Upon my hand, it bravely spread.

Bare feet on grass, slow summer days,

The world unfolded in a hazy maze.

Grandmother saw, with knowing eyes,

A secret held behind her sighs.

The stove top hummed, a gentle heat,

Water warmed for tiny feet,

And neem leaves crushed, a bitter smell,

A magic brewing, I knew well.

She traced a circle, slow and round,

Upon my skin, where trouble was found,

A whispered chant, a lullaby,

Half prayer to gods up in the sky,

Half promise whispered, soft and low,

That summer warts would surely go.

My friends, they knew, with youthful grace,

The remedies for this disgrace.

From dusty lanes and schoolyard lore,

They offered cures forevermore.

"Show it to the new moon’s light,"

"Count every star throughout the night,

Then spit three times, and make it go,"

"The wart will vanish, soft and slow."

"Turmeric paste, with salt combined,"

"Rub it with care, and you will find,

It shrinks away, without a sound,"

"And disappears from hallowed ground."

"A black thread tied, a silent vow,

Don’t speak of it, not here, not now.

Let silence be your guiding hand,

And soon, it will desert your land."

"Don't look at it, just turn away,"

"Ignore its presence every day,

For warts, they thrive on being seen,

And vanish when they’re left unseen."

Their words, like potions, sweet and deep,

I held them close, their promise to keep.

The remedies mattered less, I see,

Than the love and faith they gave to me.

I believed them all, with all my heart,

Belief itself, a healing art.

A gentle ache, a quiet sting,

The kind that summer days can bring.

Between the games, the dusty ground,

The cricket bat, the joyful sound,

A sudden tear, a dusty hand,

Learning silence in this land.

The evening came, a temple bell,

Its ringing notes, a magic spell.

The incense smoke, a curling grace,

Belief embraced that troubled place,

And wrapped the wound with unseen thread,

A comfort offered, overhead.

Days moved like rivers, calm and slow,

With rituals born of long ago.

No knife, no fear, just gentle time,

Grandma's love, like a sweet chime.

Faith did its work, in silent might,

And banished darkness, brought the light.

One dawn arrived, a hopeful gleam,

The wart had dried, a fading dream.

It crumbled softly, fell away,

Like shadows chased by morning's ray,

A curse undone, a burden freed,

Like it had heard, and then agreed

To heed the mantras, old and true,

And bid farewell, forever due.

What lingered then, was not the mark,

But memories, shining in the dark.

Neem's bitter taste, a cleansing power,

Grandmother's touch, in every hour.

Friends' laughter echoing, bright and clear,

And something else, held ever dear.

The Indian truth, we learn and know,

Where ancient wisdom starts to grow.

Some cures reside in herbs and roots,

And some in whispered, holy flutes,

Some in the faith that fills the air,

And some, perhaps, in childish prayer.

And some reside, in being a child,

Whose heart is open, undefiled,

Who trusts the magic, holds it fast,

And knows that love will always last.

Who simply believes, with all they are,

And finds the healing, near and far.